


safe as houses

by theundiagnosable



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence, and a goldfish!, excessive use of the 'break the cutie' trope, the strange and painful grey area between platonic and romantic relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 23:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14883485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: Mitch lies. Willy hides. Auston fights.





	safe as houses

**Author's Note:**

> \- i was feeling down about my writing so i went back to my roots in the ncis fandom and 30k of dumb gratuitously trope-laden murdery spy movie garbagetrash happened, and now i just feel bad about my taste in tv so overall i think that’s a win   
>  \- warnings in the end notes!! this one’s got a whole bunch so please be careful friends!!!

i.

_They got a pep talk from the boss and told to report back the next day with the in-house security protocols memorized, and the skinny kid who’d parked next to Auston dragged him out for drinks like the words ‘no fraternization’ didn’t exist._

_“What’s tactical like?” Mitch Marner asked, drumming on the side of his beer can, making this tinny little noise with his nails. “Like, training, I mean?”_

_“I don’t know,” Auston said, honest. “They fast-tracked me.”_

_Mitch laughed like he thought Auston was joking, took a few seconds to realize he wasn’t. “You’re serious?” Auston shrugged, and Marner made this vaguely impressed noise. “I’ve known, like, one person who could even get_ in _to tactical ops. Ever.”_

_“It’d be a pretty shitty secret agency if you knew more than one,” Auston pointed out, in fairness, and Mitch threw back his head and laughed. And it was like- it hit, all of a sudden, that they’d finished their first ever mission as real agents and they’d get assigned teams tomorrow and yeah, they weren’t technically supposed to know each other’s names, but Mitch Marner had introduced himself with a smile and was acting like he’d known Auston forever. It was kind of a rush._

_That might’ve also been from almost dying, earlier. Still._

_Auston nudged his own beer against Mitch’s. “Tell me what undercover’s like,” he requested, and Mitch was still smiling when he met his eyes._

\---

The plastic-wrapped briefcase lands with a squelch when Auston drops it on Zach’s desk. It’s pretty satisfying, or it would be if Auston wasn’t still slightly out of breath and bruised in more places than is frankly ideal.

“Next time,” he says, “It would be very cool if you informed me in advance that the courier’s severed hand would be attached to the briefcase.”

“Oh, jeez.” Zach scoots his chair forward, peers under the plastic and then up at Auston, all offended. “You left it on?”

“I had to fight four armed guards,” Auston says. “ _Four_ , to get this briefcase. You can deal with the hand.”

“Four armed guards,” Zach mimics while Auston perches on the edge of his desk. “Wow, Agent 034, that’s so impressive, four whole guards-”

Auston mostly tunes him out, can’t help smiling a little in spite of himself. They’ve been bitching at each other basically since they met. It’s kind of comforting, at this point.

“-went to MIT, you know,” Zach’s saying for the billionth time, tapping away at the evidence report without looking at his keyboard. “I could be living in a penthouse and inventing apps, but instead I get field agents dropping literal human hands on my desk-”

“It’s in a baggie, don’t exaggerate,” Auston says, then nods over at one of Zach’s screens before he can get going again. “029’s good?”

Zach nods, hits a button so that the black and white security cam footage fills the screen. “They got back from massages about an hour ago. I muted them once they started arguing over what to watch on Netflix.”

Auston scoffs, and for a few seconds they just watch the stream of Willy sprawled out on the sofa of the most wanted arms dealer on the continent, laughing with her about whatever they decided to watch, a glass of champagne in his hand. He looks good, utterly relaxed.

“Remind me to specialize in undercover in my next life,” Auston quips, and Zach returns his grin.

“Right there with you, bud,” he says, and then, all casual, “Speaking of undercover...”

Auston should probably be more embarrassed than he is at how much he, like, visibly reacts to that, but-

“He’s back?” he asks, sitting up straighter. “You saw him?”

Zach fixes him with a Look, the kind that belongs on a suburban mom more than a twenty-something techie. “I’m not saying that,” he says, all slow, because torturing Auston is apparently fun. “Because knowing the whereabouts of an operative on another team is a risk that could lead to sensitive information being compromised-”

“Hyms,” Auston pleads, and Zach rolls his eyes but relents, doesn’t even give Auston shit for using his nickname on the clock, even though it’s against protocol.

“Yeah, I ran into him on his way to the washroom.”

Auston barely hears the end of his sentence, already booking it out of their ops room so fast that he skids as he rounds the corner. He catches a glimpse of a couple other guys walking through the bullpen, slows to a walk as he passes the closed door of the boss’ office, and bursts into the washroom just in time to see Mitch shrugging out of a sweater vest.

He’s got this collared shirt on, the kind he only ever wears if it’s for a cover – so he, like, _just_ got back, apparently – and his hair’s all messy from taking off his sweater, and then he looks up and Auston barely has time to register that he’s wearing a pair of thick glasses before Mitch catches his eye in the mirror. It’s almost funny how fast his face moves from neutral to surprise to a smile that splits his face. Glasses or not, it’s so distinctly Mitch that Auston can’t help but match his expression.

“Hi,” Auston says, dumb, and by the time it occurs to him to come up with something cleverer, Marns has already wheeled around and launched himself across the room, attack-hugging Auston so the momentum sends them spinning. It makes Auston’s bruises ache, but he just brings his hands up around Mitch’s back and squeezes, tight, laughing. “Hey, Mitchy.”

“I thought you were in the field, I was looking for you!” Mitch says, right up against Auston, and he’s laughing too and he’s _back_ , not even any worse for the wear.

“Found me, I guess,” Auston says. When they pull back, there’s this brilliant second where they just look at each other, all caught up. It’s been almost a month that Mitch has been working this case, no updates to anyone but his team. HQ isn’t the same without him here.

Auston flicks at Mitch’s glasses, glances pointedly at the discarded sweater vest. “So you were undercover on the set of Big Bang Theory, I guess?”

“Fuck you, 034.” Mitch grins as he pulls off the glasses and blinks up at Auston, all dishevelled. “I forgot I was still wearing these.”

“In too deep,” Auston jokes, and leans on the counter to watch Mitch try to smooth his hair down. He tries on the glasses, squinting all exaggerated because he knows it’ll make Mitch laugh, and it does, until a couple of ops guys from other teams walk in and they have to pretend to be serious.

Mitch keeps catching Auston’s eye in the row of mirrors and smiling, and Auston should probably go help Hyms with the severed hand, but he lingers anyways.

\---

Mitchy never really got the memo about the whole ‘brooding secret agent’ thing, Auston doesn’t think, and he fucking adores him for it. He’s the closest thing to normal Auston’s got, has been since their first day on the job, different teams and all.

They know each other too well, probably. Auston could probably sketch out Mitch’s apartment by memory, the kitchen-living room-entrance all crammed into a space the size of a shoebox; the cluttered countertop with keys and bills addressed to a fake name and Fido swimming around in his fishbowl.

Her fishbowl? Their fishbowl? Auston’s not sure how goldfish gender works.

He taps the side of the tank absently, drags his hand along the counter and pokes at the folded corner of the picture taped to the wall. It’s Mitch and his friends when they were younger and in training, beaming at the camera and wearing matching shirts.

“You know you’re not supposed to have personal shit,” Auston says, like he always does, and taps the picture one more time.

“I’m gonna get a picture of you and me one day,” Mitch promises, like _he_ always does, and peeks over his shoulder from where he’s standing by the microwave to grin at Auston. “One of those- what’s it called, the sheet of little pictures from a photobooth. That’d be adorable.”

“That’d be stupid, actually,” Auston says, but there’s no heat in it, and Marns doesn’t do anything worse than scoff at him while Auston heads over to the couch and grabs at the remote. His chest is sore, a little, from the fight earlier, but it’s mostly faded into a dull ache. No worse than the kind he’s been living with more often than not since he started working in the field. “There a game on, or-”

“Uh. I think at eight?”

Auston just sort of hums in response, channel surfs a bit and listens to Mitch singing to himself while waiting for the popcorn to be ready.

He misses this, when Mitch isn’t around.

“Yo,” Mitch says, coming up behind him. He tosses something in Auston’s direction. “Catch.”

Auston does automatically. It’s a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a dishtowel that’s definitely seen better days. Auston holds it to a particularly sore spot on his ribs and exhales in relief. He didn’t even tell Mitch he was hurting. “You’re the best.”

“Well, yeah,” Mitch says, after a second. He doesn’t tack on an _obviously,_ but Auston hears it anyways. He sets down the bowl of popcorn and perches on the edge of the coffee table, right across from Auston so their knees knock together.

He’s distracted.

“Hey,” Auston says. Not pushing, exactly.

“Hey back,” Mitch says, maybe a little automatically.

Auston kicks at Mitch’s socked feet. “You good?”

Mitch shrugs. “No one’s said my name in weeks,” he says. “Assignment, y’know. It’s weird.”

And- yeah, Auston knows, because ‘numbers only on mission’ is the first thing they tell you after they do the whole ‘you’re now part of an elite secret organization’ deal; but he also knows that it’s not the same for him as it is for Marns. He’s tactical, not undercover. Never had to be someone else for weeks on end.

“Mitch,” Auston says, looking him square-on. “Mitch, Marns, Mitchy. Mitchell Marner.”

“Auston Matthews,” Mitch says, and for a second there they’re nose-to-nose and it’s this weirdly full moment, like- vulnerable, a little, because they aren’t technically supposed to know their teammates’ names, let alone each other’s; so it’s that, or it’s how Mitch has maybe the nicest eyes Auston’s ever seen, but-

But that’s the kind of thing Auston’s not allowed to think, and Mitch breaks off laughing, getting to his feet for just long enough to flop down on the couch next to Auston with a sigh.

“God,” he says, conversational, sitting real close so his knees are mostly in Auston’s lap. “I could pass out right now.”

Auston adjusts his grip on the makeshift ice pack to make room for Marns’ legs. “Long assignment?”

Mitch shrugs. “Usual. I don’t know.” He leans back, stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth. Asks, light, “How’s your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Auston says, rolling his eyes. Marns and Willy have always been a little weird about each other. It’s an undercover thing, maybe. Mitch is still waiting for an answer, though, so Auston sighs. “He’s fine. Usual.”

That’s about as far as they ever go, with work stuff. Shit’s classified, need to know, and Auston has enough of people trying to kill him every day without reliving it at the end of the night. This is the part where they demolish a bowl of popcorn and watch the Raptors game until they pass out and do it all again tomorrow, repeat ad nauseum ‘til Mitchy gets his next deep cover.

It’s been quiet for a while when Auston asks, on a whim, “Would you do it different?” Mitch looks up at him. “If you could go back and change stuff, would you do it?”

Mitch seems bemused. “Would you?”

“I don’t know,” Auston says. He doesn’t know what he means, really. Not like their job’s the kind of thing they can leave at work. Not like he’d even want to. Things get blurry, though. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mitch says. “Change stuff, I mean.” And if they both weren’t trained to read people, that’d be the end of it; they are, though, so it isn’t, and Auston sees how Mitch glances at the picture of him and his friends taped up by the fish tank, the briefest little look.

It’s another thing they don’t really talk about.

He meets Mitch’s eyes, a question.

Mitch shrugs, small. “Davo knew what he was signing up for,” he says. Not quite sad – whatever happened, it was a long time ago. “We all did.”

“We were kids,” Auston says. He doesn’t mean it to come out like an argument, but it does, and Mitch raises an eyebrow, kind of incredulous.

“What, do you regret it?”

“No,” Auston says, “no, of course not, I just-”

He just.

He doesn’t regret it. No point, after everything he’s done, except it’s also not as easy as all that, because, see, Auston was supposed to be an analyst. Only reason he hadn’t gone for a civilian position was because he’d wanted to do shit that mattered. He’d always been good at seeing patterns and solving puzzles. Bought into the whole ‘serve your country’ thing, too, a little. Figured he’d solve crimes, mostly work in an office.

Then he got plucked out of the FBI academy after breaking records in combat aptitude and reflex tests.

His mom was really proud, when Auston told her he tested out of the academy. She probably still thinks he’s with the feds. Auston doesn’t know either way, hasn’t spoken to any of his family outside of Christmas cards in- god, it’s been years, now.

“It’s the system,” the woman who’d woken Auston up and led him out of the dorms at Quantico said. She had an accent, one Auston hadn’t heard before. “An entirely self-contained operation. And, of course, the isolation is necessary, because we operate with top-secret clearance across and above international governance.”

Auston blinked. “Right,” he said. They were in a car, this nondescript sedan, and the streetlights were blurs outside the windows. He was still in the Arizona Coyotes t-shirt that he’d worn to bed, and sweatpants, and neither of those really seemed like what people wore when getting recruited to, like, secret government black-ops, which was what this thing seemed to be. He was still mostly sure he was dreaming.

“You’ll adapt fast,” the woman said, glancing over at Auston, cold and appraising. “We find there’s more buy-in if we start young, but your skillset is valuable enough to merit an exception.”

“Oh,” Auston said, flattered in spite of himself. “Thank you, uh...” He trailed off, realized too late that the woman had never given her name.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

And there’s no point in dwelling on what Auston could’ve done. He does anyways, sometimes. Wonders what they would’ve done if he’d said no. No thanks, take me back, please. He suspects it wouldn’t have made a difference. The fact that the woman – he still doesn’t know who she was – told him everything so up front, he didn’t and doesn’t get the impression that saying no was really an option.

He hadn’t even thought about saying no, at the time. He was nineteen and being told he was exceptional, and there’s no point dwelling on what-ifs, if things were different, but it’s also going to be some kind of miracle if he makes it to thirty, and he’s done stuff that he’d rather die than tell his little sister about, and-

Mitch is staring at him, kind of vaguely puzzled-looking. He doesn’t get it, Auston realizes, ‘cause Mitch got recruited when he was fifteen like most of the others, has been answering to a number instead of a name for a decent chunk of his life. Probably hasn’t even considered any other future. Of course he doesn’t get it.

“Forget it,” Auston says, only he must not be particularly convincing, because Mitch sidles up real close and presses his nose into Auston’s shoulder, this weird, very Mitchy sort of gesture.

“Listen,” Mitch says, entreating. “We’re saving the _world_. Like, it’s really important stuff that we do. We’re basically James Bond.”

Auston peers down at him, and Mitch stares right back, holding his gaze, no trace of irony. His breath ruffles the hem of Auston’s sleeve.

Auston caves first, because that’s how they work.

“’cept I get you instead of Eva Green in a ball gown,” he says, and elbows Mitch hard, right in the ribs. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

Mitch rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “Uh, yeah, so fuck you, I’m clearly Bond in this scenario. _You_ can be _my_ sexy femme fatale.”

“I’d look fucking good in a ball gown, though,” Auston says, and Mitch just snorts, cozies up and leans his head on Auston’s shoulder, settles in to watch the game all tangled up like that. He hands out affection like it’s going out of fashion, Mitch.

Someone would probably think they were a couple, if they saw them. Auston kind of likes that, likes the idea that someone peering in would think he’s the kind of person who could have a normal relationship, that he’s the kind of person who could deserve to be anywhere in Mitch Marner’s orbit.

Saving the world.

It’s a nice thought.

Mitch maybe doesn’t get some things.

He’s the best thing Auston’s got, anyways.

\---

Auston heads into work early, same as always. He leans down and lets the retina scanner do its thing, nods at the old guys as he makes his way in, glances at the tinted glass panels of the boss’ office and doesn’t see anything, as usual.

Zach’s already at his desk, and it’s immediately obvious that he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

“Hey,” Auston says, a little wary. All-nighters at this point in a case, before they even really move into ops shit, isn’t a great sign. “You didn’t go home, 011?”

Hyms doesn’t even bother with hello.

“Had to monitor the feed,” he says, “Look at this.” Auston leans on the back of his chair, watching the screen over Zach’s shoulder. It’s more of the security footage of Willy from the camera he planted in the wall. Not a great angle, but enough to show the room full of people, mingling and drinking and laughing. Willy’s right in the middle of them. “This was last night,” Zach says. “Watch the top right.”

Auston does as he’s told, watches half the weapons dealers in Canada hanging out and making small talk. And then, right in the corner of the screen, one of them starts passing something around, people start stirring it into the drinks, which- fine, not ideal but also not the end of the world, because 029’s been doing this for long enough to know how to keep his shit together when he’s high. Part of the job.

Only, it’s not like any high Auston’s seen before. The footage fast forwards through the evening, and it goes from a relatively normal rich-people house party to everyone who took whatever drug this is laughing hysterically, walking around like they’re on the moon, jumping on couches and talking to walls and shit. They look, just, completely out of it, full-on zombie.

Auston finds Willy in the crowd. It takes a while, because he’s sitting on the floor, talking real seriously to someone who’s not there. He looks like he’s _crying_ , almost, and his eyes are just- staring at nothing, completely blank.

“Jesus,” Auston says, already getting to his feet and fishing in his pocket for his keys. “Send me his location, how long-”

“He’s fine,” Zach interrupts. He’s still staring at the screen, brow furrowed. “It goes on like this ‘til around four, then they all pass out for a couple of hours. He’s fine.”

He’s trying to sound normal. Failing pretty miserably. Hyms has an awful poker face – he gives Willy a lot of shit, but he also stayed up all night to make sure the guy was okay. He’s just as worried as Auston, maybe more.

“The mission,” Auston says, because he has to ask.

“Doesn’t seem compromised, far as I can tell.” Zach says, finally pausing the video and turning to look at Auston. “029 hasn’t signalled or anything, he should be at the regular drop.”

“Okay,” Auston says, dragging a hand through his hair and trying to get his thoughts together. “Okay, that’s good, yeah?”

“He’s fine,” Zach repeats, a third time. Auston’s not sure who he’s trying to reassure, here. Not sure it works, either.

He doesn’t like this. It’s a case like any other case, but something about it-

He doesn’t like it.

\---

Willy’s easy to spot at the Starbucks where they do their usual check-in. He’s got sunglasses on indoors, sneakers that cost more than Auston’s car. Enjoying this assignment too much, probably.

Auston joins the line behind him, pretends like he’s focused on his phone. “011 says hi,” he murmurs.

“Couldn’t come visit me himself?” Willy asks, without turning around. “Tell him next time I lose it like that I expect flowers.”

“You didn’t know what you were taking?” Auston asks.

The line shuffles forward. “It was that or blow a month long sting,” Willy says, defensive. “I got the decryption key, should help with some of the stuff from the briefcase.”

Auston nods, and they both fall silent as another customer gets close, standing next to Willy to check out the menu. Auston looks down at his phone, only as he does, he sees Willy’s hands shaking at his sides. Small, almost-imperceptible trembling, like he’s not even aware of it.

“That’s from one hit?” Auston asks, low, once the other customer moves to rejoin the line. Knows Willy will know what he means.

Willy flexes his fingers, doesn’t turn around. “I’ve never seen this stuff before,” he says, with a small shake of his head. “I swear to god I thought I was talking to my dad, like he was right in front of me. It felt like- more than real.”

“Shit,” Auston says, instead of making a joke about Willy’s daddy issues, because they’re getting close to the front of the line and time is probably of the essence. “You need an extraction?”

Willy actually turns and shoots him a dirty look over the top of his sunglasses, and Auston fully intends on giving him shit for being too obvious, but Willy’s phone rings before he can.

He takes the call, turns away from Auston like he’s not even there. “Ana, oh my god, you wouldn’t believe the _idiots_ that work here-”

And just like that, he’s back to being the spoiled rich kid who parties with arms dealers in his free time.

It’s always disconcerting, a little, how easy it is for Willy to become someone else. A little disconcerting watching any of the undercover guys work, if Auston’s being honest, because he doesn’t get how they do it, how they step out of themselves. They’re all kind of different in how they do it, too – Willy’s someone completely different, playing a character; Mitch is still Mitch, maybe with different hair or clothes or manners, but always himself, and he gets to people anyways.

Auston can’t decide which is worse.

It’s part of the job, he reminds himself, and listens to Willy place his order, does his best to look like a disinterested commuter.

He finds the USB drive taped under the counter with the lids and straws, five minutes after Willy leaves. Takes it, subtle as he can, and heads out to the car, ready to drive back to HQ and probably get roped into helping 011 deal with the severed hand from yesterday.

Auston sips his drink, resigned.

Part of the job.

\---

Zach reports the mystery drug thing, and it presumably gets passed to someone else – need to know – and he and Auston spend a couple days piecing together the info from the briefcase. It’s a nice break, detective-type stuff, drinking coffee and taking lunch breaks with Marns and sitting in the office cracking ciphers instead of almost dying in the field.

He and Hyms end up on the roof of a thirty story building by Friday anyways, because of course they do.

Auston switches the flashlight to his other hand, shoves the free one into his pocket. It’s cold up here, windy, even with all his gear. They’ve been up here too long. “If we’re right, tonight’s our only window, 011.”

Zach’s on his knees in front of the fuse box, holding a pair of pliers in his mouth and maybe a dozen frayed wires in his hands. It’s a time sensitive situation – they’re standing on top of the single most lucrative arms deal in the city’s history, and Willy’s inside, going to give the signal any minute – but Zach takes the time to transfer the pliers to an already-full hand and shoot Auston a look. “There won’t be a window at all if I can’t get these alarms offline. Don’t rush.”

“I’m not rushing.”

“Sounds like you’re rushing,” Hyms retorts. “Hold the light a little higher.”

Auston sighs, but he does, and for a few minutes, he just shuffles from foot to foot and keeps lookout while Zach works in silence. They know the routine, and maybe it’s that, how familiar all of this is, that makes Auston ask, impulsive, “Do you ever wish things were different?”

Zach doesn’t look up from the fuse box, still focused on getting them inside. “Like, personally, or universally, or...”

“The first one,” Auston says, then, after a second’s hesitation, “I just-”

 Zach cuts a wire, and the little blinking light on the console goes dark. “There,” he says, triumphant. “Alarms’re out for ten minutes, there’s our window.”

Auston doesn’t hesitate this time, just leaps into action, checking on his harness and tugging sharp on the cord. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not that the conversation got interrupted. He’s not sure what answer he was even looking for; not sure why he asked, except that he’s been thinking about it a lot, since that night with Marns.

“Small fucking window,” he says, and Zach passes him his gun and an earpiece from the duffel bag as he stands up.

“Ingrate,” Zach grumbles, and Auston grins at him before stepping off the roof.

The rappelling thing isn’t bad, even this high up. Not like he’s ever been scared of heights. It’s sort of peaceful, actually, all the cars way down on the ground, just tiny lights.

He lands on the balcony, quiet. He can see movement through the curtains.

“Waiting on 029’s signal,” Zach’s voice comes through his earpiece, and Auston nods, even though Zach can’t see him.

“Copy, 011.” Auston breathes out, watches his breath make a little cloud. Winter’s coming early, this year.

Then: “I don’t really think it really gets anything done,” Zach says. “Wondering about how things could be different. They are what they are, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Auston says, and he can tell even from down here that Zach’s waiting for him to say anything else, but there’s nothing he really _can_ say, to that, so they just sit and wait.

\---

Their case resolves itself easily enough, which is to say that only one high speed chase and two narrow misses with a rocket launcher are involved, and Willy even gets to keep his fancy sunglasses.

“This seems unfair,” Auston gripes, once Willy’s back and debriefed and they’ve finally got this one in the books. “Why does he get the nice shit?”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Willy says, haughty, and Auston messes up his hair, fond.

Zach sighs as he shrugs into his jacket. “I got _so_ used to the peace and quiet,” he says, same way he does every time Willy gets home from a cover. “Sucks that you’re back, really.”

Willy sticks out his tongue and makes a fart noise. “Whatever, you guys were worried about me.”

“Mm, sounds fake,” Zach says. “Matts?”

“Oh for sure, definitely fake,” Auston agrees, just for the face it’ll get Will to pull, and they’re all kind of jostling each other on the way out, so he’s not paying attention, almost walks right into-

“Gentlemen,” the boss says.

He’s been here at least as long as Auston has, but Auston still doesn’t know his name. Everyone just calls him the boss, usually, or ‘Coach’, once, a couple of the old guys joking around behind his back. Mitch swears he heard him answer the phone as ‘Babcock’ once, but Auston’s not entirely sure he believes it.

 “You have a minute?” he asks Auston and completely ignores the other two.

“Of course,” Auston says. “I’ll see you, guys.”

“Night, Agent 034,” Willy says, formal, and Zach echoes him, and Auston can feel both of them watching as he follows the boss into his office.

The place is scrupulously impersonal, a desk and a phone and a stack of pages that the boss turns over as he sits. “That’s a real big operation you brought down tonight, 034.”

“Thank you, sir,” Auston says, lingering by the door. “Nice to get it done.”

“And your team is performing well?”

“Yes, sir,” Auston says, no hesitation. “029 and 011 are- they’re excellent at their jobs, both of them.”

“Good,” the boss says, and he leans on his desk, looking at Auston appraisingly. “That’s good. We’re expecting big things from you, thirty-four.”

Auston’s chest swells, a little, in spite of himself. It’s this weird mix of pride and fear, because he likes being the best at his job, likes that the people higher up know it, but he also doesn’t harbour any illusions about the people he works for – if he hinted at insubordination or any breach of protocol, if he stopped performing, there’d be capital-C Consequences.

It’s not fun to think about too much, but that’s true of most things with this job, so Auston doesn’t dwell on it once the boss dismisses him, just heads out and jogs down the stairs, ready to not think about today.

Will’s waiting in the stairs to the parking garage, drumming his fingers on the retinal scanner. He’s alone.

“You’re going to set off an alarm,” Auston says, and they fall into step together as they enter the garage.

“Fun meeting?” Willy asks, and Auston shrugs.

“He just wanted an update.”

“He likes you better than me,” Willy says, real casual, and Auston glances over at him, but his face is impassive, same as always.

“Lucky for you you’re on my team, then,” Auston says, somewhere between chirping and comforting. “He likes you by proxy.”

Willy scoffs, but doesn’t push it. Other things on his mind: “You’re not busy tonight, right?”

“I was probably going to go to Mitchy’s,” Auston says, then, “He asked if you’re my boyfriend again.”

“What’d you tell him?” Willy asks, light.

Auston kind of laughs. “Does ‘boyfriend’ mean something different in Swedish, or-”

“Oh, don’t start,” Willy grumbles. Then, because he’s a brat, he starts chattering away in Swedish, a whole stream of words that Auston can’t understand, and he doesn’t stop until Auston backs him up into the corner so they’re hidden from the cameras and kisses him, hard.

Willy responds straight away, making this pleased sound and opening his mouth under Auston’s, letting Auston pin him against the wall. It’s pretty much the most emotion Willy ever shows, when Auston’s kissing him.

“You’re really annoying,” Auston says against his lips, and Willy doesn’t even argue, just laughs and gets his hands in Auston’s hair, tugs him in to kiss him again, fast and filthy. It heats up quick – almost dying earlier will do that – and Auston’s got a hand under Willy’s shirt, at his back, skin on skin.

“My place,” Willy gets out, eventually, and Auston nods, and that’s about it for words, but they don’t really need them, for what they do.

It – what they do – is an adrenaline thing, probably. Auston figures sex was kind of an inevitable consequence of them both needing an outlet after missions, of having so much of the same blood on their hands, of having killed and almost died for each other enough times that he can’t keep count. Trusting someone to get you off feels like less of a big deal when you trust them with your life.

They get each other. Or- Willy gets Auston, Auston gets as much of Willy as anyone does.

It’s convenient. Partner stuff, no strings attached. It works.

\---

Things fall into a routine, kind of:

That Sunday Auston hooks up with Willy. Monday and Tuesday he hangs out with Mitch and they fall asleep trying to choose what to watch on Netflix. The days are more productive than the nights: the team is doing recon for their new case, prepping a cover for Willy. Auston has lunch with Mitch most days, bickering over where to get food and usually just splitting two different sandwiches anyways; usually laughing about something stupid ‘til one of the older operatives gives them a disapproving enough look. It’s fun, having Mitch back. Makes Auston feel like a kid.

Wednesday, Auston takes a red-eye across the border, waits in the penthouse apartment of a C.E.O. who’s been working with human traffickers, then, when the guy gets home, puts a bullet in his head at close range.

The boss shakes Auston’s hand when he gets back, talks about recommending Auston for a promotion. Auston can still taste blood in his mouth from when it splattered. It’s never as neat as he plans it.

Mitch curls around him on the couch, later, like Auston’s a thing that needs protecting.

“Do you need to talk about it?” he asks, quiet, and Auston shakes his head, presses his face more into the crook of Mitch’s neck.

“You don’t like it when I talk about hurting people,” he says, because he’s seen the look on Mitch’s face whenever Auston mentions getting his hands dirty, the way he recoils just a little and tries to hide it. “It’s fine. It’s the job.”

“It’s the job,” Mitch agrees, then, so Auston will meet his eyes, “Hey.” He pulls back to look right at Auston, completely earnest, and yeah, Auston can see why people are willing to spill their life stories to him. “He was bad, right?”

Auston nods. “Yeah.” Really bad.

“So you’re still good,” Mitch says, that simple. “Okay?”

Auston kind of wants to laugh, but he just nods again, pulls Mitch in so he can lean into his shoulder. “Sure,” he says, tired. “Okay.”

Mitch believes it, is the thing. Makes Auston want to believe it. And- who knows, they must be something close to the good guys, at least in theory, because they’re bringing down objectively bad people, but jobs like today’s just remind Auston that he’s basically a government-sanctioned assassin, and he’s fucking awesome at it, and it’s weird to reconcile that with the two of them on Mitchy’s couch like this, all cuddled up.

Auston doesn’t want to know how Mitch would look at him if he said he’d enjoyed it, a little, how the guy fought back. How his face changed when he realized Auston was too good at his job for him to escape.

Mitch really thinks Auston’s a good guy.

Auston wants so, so bad for him to be right.

Friday, Auston and Zach make fun of Willy for his dark wig and contact lenses the whole morning. They only stop to listen to him flirt with the Russian foreign minister at the embassy, while Zach copies everything on her computer and Auston stashes an unconscious guard into a supply cupboard so no one will know they’ve been here. He isn’t gentle about it – the guy socked him right in the face, Auston’s jaw is going to be black and blue.

Willy presses down on the bruise, later, when he’s riding Auston back at his place, and it stings in the best way possible, and Auston kisses him when he comes.

 “Nice face,” Will says, after, this grin on his face. Auston laughs, shoves at him all lazy like he’s going to push him off the bed, and it’s maybe not _good_ , strictly speaking, but it sure feels like it.

The days go on.

\---

Routine never lasts long in their job, and this one ends the same way it usually does: Mitch follows Auston into the bathrooms at work one day, tosses him his apartment key.

“I’m gonna be gone for a while,” Mitch says, and Auston’s stomach sinks.

He pockets the key. Doesn’t bother asking details. No point; he knows how classified missions work. “What’s a while?”

Mitch shrugs, which means at least a month, even though he just got back from his last deep cover. He doesn’t complain, never does. This is what they signed up for. “Feed Fido, ‘kay?”

“I’m gonna make sushi,” Auston threatens half-heartedly, even though he’s not sure goldfish sushi is a feasible thing.

“Dick,” Mitch says, and he shoots Auston a grin, but he’s already kind of distant, the way he gets when he’s getting ready for a new cover. Already gone, a little. “Don’t get dead while I’m gone.”

“Don’t get dead,” Auston echoes, and holds his hand out for a fist bump, and doesn’t even protest when Mitch hugs him around the middle instead, tight.

It’s part of the job.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

 

ii.

_“I can’t get a read on him,” Auston said to Mitch, once they’d been with the agency for all of a month. They were sitting on the top level of the parking garage at work, right between two pillars so the cameras could only see their backs. “029, he’s so- I don’t even know.”_

_Mitch kind of laughed, which was fine for him, because he’d basically been adopted by his teammates the second they’d met. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush,” he teased, and Auston very tactfully ignored that, because ‘yeah, on you, idiot’ wasn’t the kind of thing he should say, probably._

_Mitch took pity on Auston. “He’s good at his job,” he said. “I heard his dad’s overseen every single mission in Sweden for like, decades. You don’t get a lot of operatives having kids, and then for the kid to be good enough to be recruited too- like, it’s big.”_

_“Why do you know everything about everyone?” Auston asked, probably too fond. “About my team?”_

_“People talk, Matty,” Mitch said, like duh. For him, it was probably true – Auston had seen how people acted around Mitch, opening up like they were drawn to him. “I think you two will get along.”_

_And ‘getting along’ was one way of putting it, maybe, when it was less than twenty-four hours later and Auston found himself back to back with William Nylander, trying not to get shot by the guys across the room, firing from behind the big United Nations banner._

_“O11,” Auston shouted, and Zach, crouched behind a desk and frantically trying to defuse the very small but very dangerous, very counting-down-from-ten bomb wedged under the President’s seat, flinched under a barrage of gunfire._

_“I’m working on it!” Zach shouted back, and Auston turned back, had a split second to process the barrel of a gun pointed at Willy, who was looking down to reload; without thinking, Auston tackled Willy to the ground, behind the row of seats. He felt a flash of pain in his arm as he did, and they went down hard – the gunman was running toward them, their first ever big mission and they were going to die – but then the whole room rocked with an explosion._

_The dust settled, real slow._

_Auston looked up, saw Zach peek out from behind the desk._

_“You threw the bomb?” Willy asked, still on the ground next to Auston, and Zach blinked._

_“I... did not think that would work.”_

_Auston laughed, and that was about when he noticed the blood on his shirt, the red welt across his bicep, ugly and stinging._

_“Oh, shit,” Willy said, noticing the same thing._

_Auston shook his head, “It just grazed me, I think,” but Willy was already talking over him, loud._

_“011,” Willy called, and it sounded like an order, more urgent than a graze would ever warrant. “034 got hit.”_

_“It was my arm or your head, calm down,” Auston said, but Zach was already running over, rummaging in his bag._

_“Eleven,” Willy said, tense as Auston had ever heard him._

_Zach, still fumbling with the first aid kit, said, “For the last time, 029, I’m your ops manager, not a medic-”_

_“I’m honestly okay,” Auston tried, and the other two completely ignored him._

_“But sure, I’ll just disable an explosive and treat a gunshot wound, no big deal,” Zach was saying, unravelling a roll of bandages. “I mean, this is just- I went to MIT for comp sci, just in case anyone cares-”_

_Willy was looking down at Auston, completely ignoring 011, and it wasn’t how he’d looked at him before, was just- surprised. Something open Auston hadn’t seen before. “Who gets shot for someone they barely know?” Willy asked, quiet._

_Auston didn’t have an answer. Could’ve said something trite about team or the job, but didn’t. And Zach patched him up decently enough, and no one died except the people who were supposed to – not bad, for a first major mission – and both those things were wins, but the best part was how Auston was pretty sure he’d won over William Nylander as- not his friend, exactly, not yet, but-_

_His something._

\---

The sound carries all the way to the basement of the museum – music and footsteps and snippets of polite conversation, all drifting past the storage crates and dusty cabinets to where Auston and Willy are waiting, crouched behind a box stamped with Arabic writing and a million different shipping labels.

Auston brushes a spider off of the knee of his suit, listens to the gala upstairs and watches Willy’s hands as he methodically assembles and disassembles his gun to pass the time. Waiting’s the worst part. Waiting’s always the worst part, even if their intel is rock-solid, even-

“034.”

Auston blinks. He didn’t even realize he zoned out, which is less than ideal, given that they’re about to go head-to-head with a bunch of violent revolutionaries. “Sorry, yeah?”

He also didn’t realize that it was possible to communicate a judging look via audio, but Zach Hyman has mastered it. “You’re distracted,” he says.

“I’m not,” Auston says. Takes out his own gun, just for something to do with his hands.

“Sure, but you are.”

Auston sighs. “I’m really not.”

“No, ‘leven’s right,” Willy chimes in, looking all angelic in his suit and tie. He doesn’t even pretend to be sorry when Auston glares at him. “You didn’t even ask me to dance. Terrible fucking date.”

“Pretend to be a professional for like, half a second, 029,” Auston shoots back, trying to muster up the effort to sound annoyed instead of vaguely turned on.

“Is it the suit?” Willy asks, completely ignoring him. “It’s the suit, isn’t it? I knew I should’ve worn blue.”

“Really should’ve,” Zach agrees, and Auston can’t help but smirk at how offended Will looks, but he has to bite back his comment when there’s the sound of a door creaking open from across the basement.

They both fall silent, so the only sounds are footsteps from twenty feet away and Zach typing over the comms, the clicking of fingers on keys. “I’ve got six- no, seven guys heading past you two for the main vault,” he says. “Like you planned, 034. All packing, and we have a dozen different foreign dignitaries in attendance upstairs, so keep it contained and subtle.”

“Subtle,” Auston agrees under his breath, and he’s thinking lure them off one by one to neutralize them, maybe smoke them out somehow, but then Willy grins. It gives Auston just enough time to pre-emptively dread whatever he’s about to do, and then Willy stands up, puts himself in full view.

“Evening, boys,” he calls, cheery, and the footsteps stop. “You guys like this suit, right?”

Auston offers up a silent apology to Hyms for all the paperwork; then, before the bad guys have even finished looking confused, he darts out from his hiding spot and takes out the two who are standing closest, shots to the middle muffled by his silencer.

That’s that for the element of surprise – he hears a gun cock from behind his back, but Willy’s already hurtling over the crate, slide-tackling the guy and going for his gun hand, so Auston turns to the other four, braces himself for the fight he knew was coming.

This kind of thing stopped being scary a long time ago. Partly long exposure, partly the fact that he’s got Willy on his six. They’re a team in every sense of the word; knowing instinctively where the other’s going to be, the familiarity of years of fighting back-to-back sinking in like a second skin. It’s kind of addictive, stepping around each other and taking down the guys in masks one by one, pure adrenaline.

One of them takes off, which is flattering, but not so great for the museum full of civilians upstairs.

“Nine o’clock,” Auston grunts as he parries away a blow, because last thing they need is a masked criminal sprinting into the gallery while the Prime Minister of Somewhere tries to enjoy finger foods.

“Got him,” Willy confirms, already sprinting after the guy.

Auston flips his guy over, slams the butt of his gun down on his head so he crumples, unconscious; then Auston wheels around and barely has time to duck out of the way as the last remaining revolutionary swings at him with a jagged-edged knife and manages to knock Auston’s gun out of his hands.

Auston goes defensive right away, vision narrowing in on the hand with the knife. Hand to hand always makes his mind go all clear, like- like dancing, figuring out what the other person’s going to do and trying to be one step ahead; real dancing, not whatever bullshit undercover stuff Will was talking about, the sort of thing he and Mitchy-

It’s like a record skipping in Auston’s brain, _Mitchy_ , and he falters just long enough to see the glint of metal coming at his chest. He reacts on instinct, sweeping out a leg and knocking the guy into a pile of crates. Effective, but not graceful – he winces as the stack of crates topples over on top of the guy and an alarm rings out, piercing the quiet. The music upstairs stops.

Shit.

By the time Auston makes it down the block to the car, the place is crawling with security, rich people milling around outside looking mildly annoyed at having the evening ruined, no clue that they almost just died.

He slams the car door behind him and collapses into the backseat, breathing heavy. “Go.”

“About time,” Zach says, flooring it down the street. “Way to be subtle, though, 034-”

Auston can hear sirens approaching, knows the foiled attack is going to be front page news tomorrow, nationally if not globally. “Would’ve been easier if my partner hadn’t decided to go enjoy the party,” he says, and Willy peers back from the front seat, affronted.

“My guy had a _bomb_ ,” he says. “Do you even know how hard it is to fight a mercenary carrying an explosive while wearing a suit this tight?”

Auston flips him off, then looks down at his own chest and realizes for the first time that half of his tie is cut cleanly off, and there’s a button loose from his shirt.

“How close did they get?” Zach asks, incredulous, clearly seeing the same thing.

Too fucking close for comfort.

“Don’t say anything, twenty-nine,” Auston warns, darkly, because he can practically see the smile on Willy’s face.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Willy says, but then he coughs, “Distracted”, and looks way too pleased with himself when Hyms laughs.

It’s been a long night, and it stays that way as they ditch the car and book it to the airport to get a red-eye back home; then, once they’ve landed, head not to bed but back to HQ to debrief. The whole thing is routine, but it drags, and they’ve been in five different time zones by the time Auston heads for his car, squinting in the sunlight.

He turns on the radio when he gets in, rubbing at his eyes to try to wake himself up, exhausted. He was right – the news anchors are excitedly describing a foiled assassination attempt that may also have been a robbery or terrorism or anything else to make people tune in.

International incident successfully averted, Auston leans back in his seat and finally lets himself go back to that moment in the basement, a knife coming at his chest and all he could think was _Mitch_.

\---

He goes by Mitch’s apartment to feed Fido, same as he’s been doing since Mitch left for deep cover two months ago.

Well. 58 days ago. 59, in a couple of hours.

He’ll have to clean the tank again soon, Auston notes as he shakes the food into the water. Fido swims up, starts eating while Auston watches.

“Hey, buddy,” he says. Fido... is a goldfish, so he keeps eating, and Auston’s just the guy standing in an empty apartment talking to a goldfish and feeling like an idiot, and fucking tired, and just really wanting his best friend back.

He leaves the mail on the counter – it’s bills or junk mail, never anything else, always addressed to ‘Mike’ – and looks around one last time, making sure he’s not forgetting anything. The picture of 16 year old Mitch and his friends is right at eye level where it’s always been.

“They recruited all three of us right out of the same high school,” Mitch told him, when Auston asked a couple of years ago. “It’s really rare, they usually don’t want operatives to know each other. But we were that fucking good. Davo especially.”

“How good?”

“As good as you, at least,” Mitch said, and Auston remembers scoffing – he’s not cocky, but he knows what he can do – and Mitch laughed, and that was the last they’d talked about it.

It’s kind of eerie, teenage Davo with an arm around Mitch, frozen and smiling at the camera like he’s not going to be dead inside of a year.

This place is too quiet without Mitch, Auston decides.

Two months is a long fucking time to not hear anything from his best friend.

\---

It’s a bad call, because this is exactly the kind of thing that gets guys written up for breaking fraternization protocol, but Auston waits around the bullpen ‘til he hears Mitch’s team heading for the munitions room, and follows them in.

Kadri’s shrugging out of a shoulder holster while Marleau types into a tablet, and neither of them notices Auston as he comes through the door.

“-shell company’s registered under Bettman, but that might be an alias, background’s giving us nothing,” Marleau is saying, and Kadri’s kind of frowning.

“Right, but if Ivanov-”

Marleau cuts Kadri off with a cough, finally noticing Auston. “Morning, kid,” he says, pleasant enough.

“Hi, 012,” Auston says, and returns his smile. Marleau’s nice, keeps his cards close to his chest. Mitch adores the guy. “043.”

Kadri does a little mock-salute, goes back to putting his gun away.

Auston gets right to business. “Agent 016,” he says, trying to sound authoritative, like he’s got any official reason to be asking this. “He’s checked in recently, right?”

“I know that you know that that info is classified,” Marleau says, without missing a beat. “Not how we do things.”

“I’m not asking where he is or what he’s doing,” Auston says. “Just his status, I-” He breaks off, staring. 043’s reaching up to a shelf, and his whole shoulder’s wrapped in bandages, tinged red at the edges. “What happened to you?”

“Now he notices,” Kadri quips, smirking. It kind of reminds Auston of shark week specials on the Discovery Channel – he and 043 are both tactical, but he’s never felt particularly at ease around the guy. He enjoys fucking with people, is the impression Auston gets. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“Doesn’t look fine,” Auston says, and Kadri shrugs, doesn’t even wince.

“More shit to cover, with sixteen on assignment. One of his informants got murder-y, and this morning 016 was-”

“So Mitch is alive?” Auston demands, forgetting himself, and the reaction is immediate, Kadri fake-coughing while Marleau glances warningly at the camera up in the corner of the room. Auston’s not dumb enough to think it’s the only one in here, either.

They’re looking out for him, probably, but he still feels stupid. He shouldn’t have used Mitch’s actual name. Not here.

“ _I’m_ alive,” Kadri says, pointedly breaking the silence, because if there’s one thing this guy isn’t, it’s subtle. “Barely. Really appreciate the concern, though, 034.”

Auston very deliberately doesn’t look up at the camera. “Glad you’re okay,” he says.

012 claps him on the shoulder as he leaves, gives this little nod. Once Auston’s out in the hall, he relaxes for just about the first time in 59 days. Marns’ team isn’t worried about him. Like, they didn’t answer Auston’s question, technically, but they’re working like normal, and it sounds like they’ve been communicating with Mitch, which can only be a good thing.

He’s fine. Mitch is fine.

\---

Willy hits the mat, hard, flat on his back.

Auston grins down at him, breathing hard. “That’s, what, ten to one?”

Willy wipes the sweat off of his forehead, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling too, just a little. “Six to four, asshole, don’t be cocky.”

“I’d never,” Auston says, and holds out a hand to tug Willy up to his feet. Neither of them gives the other room once Willy’s up, staying all tense, ready to act or react. It’s for good reason – Willy fights dirty, even when it’s just the two of them sparring in the gym.

“You’re in a good mood,” Will observes as they circle each other.

Auston shrugs, can’t disagree. “Found out Mitchy’s okay,” he says, and, without warning, lunges at the shoulder that Willy’s been complaining about since he banged it up last week, because Auston fights dirty too.

Willy spins out of the way, barely; gives Auston a kick to the ass as he stumbles past, and a grin when Auston glares at him. The grin doesn’t disappear, and Willy’s voice sounds light as anything when he says, “You’re so obsessed with each other. You and 016. He’s not even one of us.” It’s teasing, maybe, mostly. Kind of a question.

“ _One of us_ ,” Auston echoes, bemused. He’s still mostly focused on Willy’s hands. “Are we a cult now, or...”

“You know what I mean,” Willy says. “You have a team.”

“What if I want other stuff?” Auston asks. They’re veering into actual conversation territory, and that’s not them, not even close.

“What else is there?” Willy shoots back, and Auston can’t tell if it’s a rhetorical question. Doesn’t get a chance to figure it out, because Willy charges at him, swings at his head so Auston has to duck out of the way and go for Willy’s knees, and then they’re fully engaged, limbs flying fast.

It’s fun. Willy’s one of the few around here that Auston doesn’t mind practicing with, because he’s good enough to be a challenge. Will fights like he’s been training to do this his whole life, which he literally has, with his dad and all. Thing about that, though, is that he fights like he’s been trained, which is the same as a lot of people are trained. Most people, even. There are patterns, moves that he falls back on, and the reason why Auston’s in tactical, the reason why he got fast-tracked through training, is because he can see those patterns and do stuff like-

“ _Fucker_ ,” Willy cusses him out as he hits the mat again with a dull thud.

“Seven-four,” Auston says, massaging his side where Willy got him with an elbow. That’s going to bruise, for sure. “You still come in too close too soon,” he advises, and Willy’s eyes flash – he’s never been great at taking criticism – but he doesn’t break eye contact.

“What is it about him?” he asks, still on his ass on the ground. He’s not letting the Mitch thing go, which means he’s genuinely curious about it, and Willy being genuine about anything is unusual enough that Auston can’t help but give an honest answer.

“He’s-” Auston says, then hesitates, trying to find the words. “He’s _good_ ,” is what he lands on, eventually. “He’s better than this stuff.”

“He does the same job I do,” Willy says, then corrects himself, “We do.”

“He still talks about saving the world,” Auston says. “Literally, saving the world, that’s-” He cuts himself off before he can finish, because he was going to say ‘that’s what I always wanted to do’, and he’d never, ever hear the end of that one. Auston Matthews, do-gooder. Yeah, right. “It’s nice.”

He extends a hand to help Willy up, but Willy doesn’t take it, just stays looking up at Auston and says, quick, “Are you guys fucking?”

“No.”

They’re going back and forth like a tennis match. “But you’re in love with him anyways.”

“You jealous, 029?” Auston asks, not a no.

“Would it matter if I was?” Willy retorts; then, before Auston can respond, Willy’s rolling him over, taking him by surprise so Auston ends up pinned to the ground, Willy perched on top of him.

“Seven-five,” Willy says.

Auston doesn’t try to get up, and Willy doesn’t take his hands off of Auston’s wrists. The energy in the room is changing, has changed tangibly to a whole different kind of tension. A better kind, probably, the kind that exists in the spaces between where they’re pressed together, sweating and breathing heavy and still tensed to fight.

“I’ll teach you how to bluff better, one day,” Willy says, and his voice is back to being light, neutral, closed-off. “You’re easy to read, thirty-four.”

“And you’re not?” Auston asks. “I can read you fine.”

It’s a lie. The look on Willy’s face could be anything. “Sure you can,” he says, easy enough. He drags his thumb along Auston’s wrist, presses his hips down, and his lips are so, so close.

Auston flips them over, gets Willy in a headlock.

“Hey, watch my face!” Willy screeches, flailing in Auston’s grip. “I need it for work!”

“Say ‘uncle’,” Auston orders, squeezing a little tighter, but he’s laughing, they both are, grappling around like kids who happen to have licenses to kill. They go ‘til they’re dripping with sweat, ‘til the score runs up to 16-12 and Willy calls it, lets Auston suck him off in the showers as a consolation prize.

The high lasts for ages, the way it usually does after a fight. Auston forgets the Willy and Mitch thing, forgets the being worried about Mitch thing; forgets a lot of Mitch things, for at least a little while.

\---

The days pass. Routine falls into place, different than before.

Auston’s good at his job. His whole team is good at their job – they get the big missions, the real high profile ones with time constraints and international flights and huge risk, and they close them all.

The boss watches from his office, gives Auston an approving nod.

Auston does what he has to do. Hangs out with Willy, sometimes, after work, or heads home alone, or goes and feeds Mitch’s fish – he’s sixty-six days gone, then sixty-seven – and it becomes routine, eventually, like it’s the way things have always been.

\---

It’s one of the good nights, after Will’s dad is in town. It’s a work thing – most things are work things, with the Nylanders, is the impression Auston gets – but Willy gets to hang out with his dad, and then he invites himself and Zach over to Auston’s place for drinks after work, so Auston knows it went well.

‘Drinks’, in this case, means the three of them getting hammered enough that they’re probably a security risk; sitting out on Auston’s tiny little balcony, legs hanging out and sides all squished together.

“Boss told my dad I was doing good,” Willy says, and he’s glowing so obviously that even he can’t quite hide it. “He told him about the Sanchez case, with the truck. Dad said he was really impressed.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Auston says, messing up Willy’s hair all proud, and Zach takes a swig from his beer, nudges Willy’s side.

“Cheers, man.”

Willy beams at him. “Thanks, ‘leven, you’re good too.” Auston wonders if it’s a conscious thing that Willy does, sticking to numbers instead of names even on a night like this, even most of the way through a bottle of rosé. There’s a good chance he doesn’t even realize.

“We’re going to be legendary, you guys,” he’s announcing now, rambling. “They’re going to teach all the new agents about us, use us as an example. Brothers in arms, or whatever. That stuff.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Zach deadpans, before Auston’s even done processing that little declaration. “Your eloquence is unmatched, William, truly.”

“I’m ESL!” Willy splutters, like he hasn’t been speaking English since he was a toddler, and Zach opens his mouth to argue, but Auston cuts him off.

“You’re a really pretentious drunk, Hyms,” Auston informs him, flicking at Zach’s neck then grinning when he gets swatted away. It’s more affectionate than genuinely annoyed, he thinks.”That an MIT thing?”

Willy leans on Zach’s shoulder and peers over at Auston. He definitely knows what he looks like, all blue eyes and tousled hair, all flirty. “You gonna congratulate me too, thirty-four?”

Auston laughs. “I’m gonna keep saving your ass when you fuck up in the field. You’re welcome, by the way-”

And they’re all kind of laughing, loose-limbed and tipsy and the best in the world at what they do, and Auston’s with his team, and he’s probably going to get laid, once Hyms leaves, and he can’t remember being this happy in a long time.

Zach’s humming to himself, now, looking out at the city kind of thoughtfully, and Willy hooks his ankle with Auston’s.

Auston looks at him, asks, without thinking, “Do you ever think of doing something different?”

Willy doesn’t miss a beat. “Why would I want to?” he asks back, and throws his arms around both of them, tugging them in close.

And a night like this, one of the good nights, Auston can’t think of an answer.

\---

Day 73 is one of a million just like it, the three of them cooped up in their ops room, doing the legwork for a new mission. This one’s got a time limit – 24 hours ‘til the performance where the assassination’s supposed to happen – but no one’s particularly stressed. The whole thing’s familiar, the three of them existing in each other’s space, getting done what they need to do.

Zach volunteers to go get lunch after noon, rubbing at his eyes after staring at a screen for hours on end, so Auston’s left sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, poring over blueprints and camera locations and guard rotations. He’s trying to figure out the best way to get in and out of the opera without tipping anyone off – the stage door, maybe, but then there’ll be the performers...

Auston rolls his shoulder, refocuses on the work in front of him. He’s got Willy talking to himself in French as background noise, the same phrases repeated over and over as he spins around in Zach’s chair, prepping for his cover. It’s kind of relaxing, comforting in how familiar it is.

Auston’s marking off camera blindspots on the map of the main theatre by the time Zach gets back. The little beep of the door opening startles him, and a glance at his watch tells him it’s been nearly an hour.

“That took ten million years,” he teases, and catches the little paper bag Zach tosses him. “You stopped to make it yourself, or-”

“Thank you for the food, 011,” Zach says, sarcastic. “Thank you for making sure we don’t forget to eat and subsequently die because we’re man-babies incapable of caring for ourselves, 011.”

“Merci, 011,” Willy says, looking up at Zach real sweet, practically cherubic, as he’s handed his food. Dick.

Zach scoffs, but softens a little, because even long exposure doesn’t quite make people immune to William Nylander. “Terrible accent,” he says, fond, and tips Willy right out of his chair, sending him spluttering to the ground as Auston loses his shit laughing. Zach glances over his shoulder at Auston. “I didn’t actually leave ‘til maybe one. Ran into 016 downstairs.”

Auston stops mid-laugh, and the smile’s still on his face, he didn’t- he heard wrong, probably. “Sorry, who?”

“Sixteen?” Zach says. “Your platonic but not-platonic life partner?”

Auston stares, and he can feel Will looking at him from where Zach dumped him onto the floor, and he can’t think what to say, because Mitch is here for the first time in 73 days and Auston had no clue.

“Wait,” Zach says, frowning as the silence stretches out. “You didn’t know?”

Auston shakes his head. “No,” he says, and he remembers himself, starts getting to his feet. “No, I- thanks for the food, I’m going to go see-”

“He’s not here,” Zach says, and he looks stricken. “He was on his way out with his team when I saw him, I- sorry, thirty-four, if I’d known I would’ve told- I just assumed you guys had...”

And Auston can’t even be mad at Zach for assuming that he’d know, because every other time Mitch has come back from a cover or even stopped to check in, they’ve found each other first thing, at their apartments or at work, for the whole night or ten minutes or anything, because that’s what they _do_.

And Auston’s not about to get angry at Mitch for something like this, because it’s the job, and he knows that, but it’s just- Mitch had time to stop and chat with Zach, apparently, and who knows who else, and that just sort of feels intentional, and it would be so, so much easier if Auston could be angry.

Later, when he’s back at his place, he stares at himself in the mirror. He looks tired. Feels it, too.

God, he misses Mitch like a knife in the gut.

“You’re good,” he tells his reflection. It sounds empty, less convincing than when Mitch says it. Less important.

\---

Auston heads upstairs, once they’re at the safehouse, and Zach and Willy let him.

Tonight was messier than he usually prefers. Just one of those missions where the plan went to shit and Auston’s team ended up with knives at their throats and a hallway of murderous cult members between him and them and-

And Auston did what he had to. He always does what he has to, but tonight that means that he leaves the place with blood on his hands and his neck and all down his front, unable to tell if it’s his or someone else’s, like something out of a horror movie.

He heads straight for upstairs, for the shower, and no one stops him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s in there for. He can’t get clean, it’s like- he scrubs himself until his skin is rubbed raw but he just can’t- there’s blood under his nails, and it’s still there, and Auston’s picking at it ‘til it hurts but it won’t fucking go _away_.

Willy doesn’t bother knocking before coming in, stepping in between Auston and the showerhead. He looks good, because he always looks good, somehow brighter than usual even under the fluorescent lights, just pale skin and a thin red line where the knife was pressed into his neck.

He holds Auston’s gaze. “You’re fine,” he says, and Auston wants to believe him, but he’s shaking his head, and Willy talks over him, holds onto Auston’s face with both hands to still him. “Listen,” Willy says, firm. “You’re better than fine.”

“Will,” Auston says, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but Willy’s already reaching down to touch him, real light, and there’s something in his eyes that takes Auston’s breath away, something like awe.

“You took out six of them,” Willy enthuses, right up close, leaning their foreheads together. “ _Six_ , all by yourself, that was really fucking hot-”

Auston does this sound, not quite a laugh. It comes out a little desperate, a little disbelieving. “You’re getting off on this?”

“Getting _you_ off on this,” Willy corrects, and then he’s jerking Auston off, not bothering to start slow, and Auston leans forward, drops his head onto Willy’s shoulder. “You’re so good, thirty-four.”

“This is kind of fucked up,” Auston gets out, but he breaks off with a gasp under Willy’s touch, squeezes his eyes shut.

“This is what we _do_ ,” Willy says, right up close, and it’s not often that his accent slips out, but Auston hears it there, and it’s as near as the two of them ever get to a vulnerable moment, that little bit of an accent in Willy’s voice.

He’s pretty sure this is Willy trying to be helpful the best way he knows how. It works, mostly, or at least comes close; the two of them under the water until it goes cold, touching each other ‘til it gets almost frantic, and Auston loses himself in it.

\---

Then:

The plane ride home is the opposite of comfortable, the three of them hitching a ride with a Canadian military transport, strapped into little fold-down seats in what’s essentially a cargo bay. Willy’s passed out on Zach’s shoulder, snoring softly, and Zach’s getting a head start on the debriefs, bent over his laptop.

He keeps on looking at Auston, all pensive.

Auston lasts maybe two hours before calling him on it. “You’re being judgy again,” he says.

Zach doesn’t look up from his screen. “If you don’t want me to be judgy, maybe don’t have sex when I’m trying to sleep in the room next door.”

Auston scoffs, a little defensive but mostly just caught off guard. Zach knows he and Willy have been hooking up, he’s too smart not to, and he’s not usually like this, with Auston. “Why’re you being such a bitch about it?” he asks. “It’s letting off steam, you should try it sometime.”

Zach sighs, but he meets Auston’s eyes, not unkind. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he says. Willy shifts in his sleep so his face is pressed into Zach’s shirt. He’s probably going to drool or something, but Zach doesn’t move him, just adjusts how he’s sitting. “Sleeping with someone who’s in love with someone else usually ends badly.”

Auston doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “Who’s Will in love with?” Auston asks, confused. He didn’t think Willy really gave a shit about anything, except for the job and having nice stuff and getting laid, once in a while.

Zach is staring at Auston, incredulous. “You can’t actually be this smart and this dumb at the same time,” he says, and Auston blinks.

“Excuse me?”

Zach purses his lips. “How many days has Mitch been gone, Auston?”

“Eighty-sev-” Auston starts automatically, then snaps his mouth shut.

Zach doesn’t even look smug. Auston’s pissed at him anyways.

“Numbers on mission, 011,” he orders, surly. He feels pretty dumb, pulling rank and bossing Zach around, but Zach just gives him this reproachful look and goes back to his work. Auston’ll apologize later, probably. For now, though, he’s just-

He doesn’t know what he is. He’s annoyed, a little. Embarrassed.

Mostly annoyed.

It’s like- He hasn’t seen Mitch in _months_ , hasn’t gotten even a note, and Auston being or not being a little bit in love with him is immaterial here, whatever Zach thinks, because he’s got the job and he’s got Will and Mitch has always been separate from that, so it’s not- it’s not something they need to discuss.

Auston knows what his priorities are. Knows Mitch’s priorities, now, and he’s not hurt by that because it’s the job, and he’s done being distracted. 011 doesn’t get to tell him what to do, MIT and all. Mitch sure as _hell_ doesn’t, not up here flying over an ocean, thousands of miles from nights cuddled up on the couch with popcorn.

Priorities.

\---

The boss calls Auston into his office, introduces him to a bunch of people from national HQ. Even shaking hands with them feels dangerous.

“We’re expecting big things from you, 034,” one of them says, and his hand is cold, his suit worth more than anything Auston’s ever seen.

“You’ll get them,” Auston promises, and he’s not scared, this time, just eager.

\---

He thinks a lot of stuff, when Mitch shows up at his door at two in the morning.

None of it’s particularly coherent. More just feelings, happy then furious then on the verge of tears; and Auston’s just staring, drinking in every detail of Mitch standing in front of him. He’s in a sweatshirt and sneakers and he’s just looking at Auston, mouth slightly open like he was going to talk, but he doesn’t.

Neither of them even says anything before they’re moving towards each other, before Auston’s clinging to Mitch, hugging him tight enough to lift him off his feet, and Mitch is leaning into Auston’s shoulder, pressing his face into his skin and clutching handfuls of his shirt and letting out this shuddering breath.

Auston just- he really missed him. Missed him like missing a piece of himself. Everything else from the past months disappears, behind that.

It’s being home for the first time in months, and there’s one perfect, incandescent moment where Auston wants to stay like this forever, holding onto Mitch – Mitch is _here_ – only-

Only this isn’t supposed to be happening, the whole point of deep cover is no contact aside from pre-determined drops with their team, and Mitch is a lot of things to Auston, but he’s not on his team.

Something’s wrong.

“Mitchy,” Auston says, a little breathless, and Mitch shakes his head, doesn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” he says, like Auston can’t see the edge of his collarbone jutting out, like he’s not still hiding against Auston’s chest. It’s the first time Auston’s heard his voice in months – he forgot what Mitch sounds like, always deeper than people expect. “I’m not supposed to be- it’s fine.”

“Are you?” Auston asks.

Mitch still isn’t looking at him, talking all fast and flat and all over the place. “Ivanov likes me,” he says. “It’s ‘cause I look young, I think. People like him usually like that stuff. It’s like- trust, y’know.”

And Auston doesn’t know at all; doesn’t know what it means that this Ivanov person likes younger guys, doesn’t know what exactly Marns had to do to gain his trust while Auston’s been sitting here fucking around with his teammate and being the opposite of what Mitch thinks he is, and-

And Mitch’s hands are shaking, balled up in Auston’s shirt, and noticing that one little detail, it’s like it crystallizes in Auston’s chest, this clear, kind of dizzying anger. He wants to _kill_ whoever else made Mitch look like this, to fucking dismantle them, surgical and precise.

“Don’t go back,” Auston blurts, and Mitch is shaking his head again before he’s even done talking.

“Don’t ask that,” Mitch says. “If you do I’ll say yes, so don’t.”

“We could leave,” Auston says, pulling back to look at Mitch eye to eye. He takes in everything he didn’t notice at first, the bags under Mitch’s eyes, the way his sweater is hanging loose off his shoulders. Auston knows as he says it that it’s pointless, mostly pleading, and he says it anyways. “We could just go, Marns-”

“You know there’s nothing else,” Mitch all-but-whispers, and Auston stares, helpless.

“We could-”

“Don’t,” Mitch cuts him off, and Auston doesn’t know what he’s intending to do when he gets his hands up to cup Mitch’s face, desperate, but it doesn’t matter, because Mitch leans in and kisses him.

It’s a nothing kiss, objectively. Just Mitch’s mouth against Auston’s, just once, this clumsy grade-school sort of thing, and then Mitch is pulling back, just enough to keep their foreheads pressed together.

The hallway is silent around them.

Auston’s breath catches in his throat when he tries to exhale.

“What was that for,” he gets out, eventually. It comes out barely audible. He’s too aware of every inch between their lips, of Marns’ chest rising and falling, his face so close Auston can’t look at him without things blurring out of focus.

“Dunno,” Mitch says, just as quiet. “Figured I’d try it.”

That’s never- they’ve never done anything like that. And yeah, Auston considered kissing him, maybe, the first time they met; maybe a few times after; maybe whenever he couldn’t stop himself for as long as they’ve known each other, but- but he’s never actually _done_ it. He had no idea Mitch liked guys, no idea Mitch liked anyone, and that was always fine, because Mitch is Auston’s best friend, the one good thing he’s got, and Auston hardly even trusts himself to be near him without ruining him, only now-

Mitch _kissed_ him, and he’s here, and he’s already backing off, eyes down.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says again, then, “You fed my fish?”

“Mitchy,” Auston says, but Mitch is avoiding his gaze again, tugging on the sleeves of his sweater, all restless. Already gone, a little.

“Yeah,” Auston says. “Yeah, I fed your fish.”

“Good,” Mitch says. “That’s good.”

He heads for the elevator, doesn’t have to tell Auston not to tell anyone he was here. They both know how many rules this is breaking.

Auston wants to hold onto Mitch, to make him stay, tell him that he can’t just kiss someone and disappear, not when he’s making Auston re-evaluate everything he’s ever thought. If they could’ve- if Mitch has wanted to kiss him-

“Hey,” Auston says, instead. Mitch looks back, and Auston tries for a smile. “Don’t get dead, okay?”

Mitch nods. “Don’t get dead,” he says, and smiles back, real small.

He goes, and Auston lets him.

He _lets him_.

 

iii.

_“Tell me what undercover’s like,” Auston requested, that first day, and Mitch Marner was still smiling when he met his eyes, but he looked like he was thinking about his answer._

_“It’s like,” Marner said, finally, “everyone has gaps, right? Like- they want something, and it’s my job to figure it out and be that something. People’ll tell you anything, if they think you’re the thing they want.”_

_“So you lie,” Auston said, then worried that that was kind of rude, but Mitch didn’t look offended. The opposite._

_“I’m good at it, too,” he said, all proud, and elbowed Auston, companionable._

_“I don’t believe you,” Auston said, and elbowed Mitch back, after a second._

_“You would if I wanted you to,” Mitch said, and it was the closest thing to serious Auston had seen him, the three days they’d known each other. “You believe that?”_

_“Maybe,” Auston said, and it wasn’t really an answer, but he got the feeling that it might be the truth, anyways._

\---

So:

It’s day 104 and the briefing doesn’t say he’s dead, in as many words, but it doesn’t really matter, because Auston doesn’t see it ‘til later, after he’s already walked into work and found the place silent like a crypt.

Marleau is standing outside the closed door of the boss’ office, eyes red, and he doesn’t smile at Auston the way he usually does. No one’s talking in the bullpen, and Auston feels himself walking faster in spite of himself towards his team’s ops room, already getting that something has gone down.

When Auston gets into the room, Willy is standing by the wall, head down, and Zach’s on the other side of the room, still in his jacket, even though he’s always here before Auston. Willy kind of starts, almost flinches, when Auston walks in.

“What happened?” Auston asks, this sinking feeling in his stomach. “029, what is it?”

 Willy shakes his head, doesn’t even look at Auston, so Auston looks at Zach. Zach, standing there in his puffy winter jacket, and the hard stuff always falls to him, and Auston probably knows at this point but he needs Zach to talk because Zach fixes stuff.

“Eleven,” Auston says, and Zach meets his eyes, takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself.

 “Matts,” he says, and now, now Auston knows.

The briefing doesn’t say Mitch is dead, in as many words. Just: he didn’t show up at a meeting with 043, and he wouldn’t answer his phone, and the room he was renting for his cover was trashed, and Auston doesn’t get much beyond that, because it’s like he’s listening to Zach talk from the end of a tunnel, hearing without really registering details.

There’s no body, but there’s nothing else, either.

He’s just gone.

 

iv.

Auston gets into work early, like always. Leans down for the retinal scanner. Crosses the bullpen. It’s quiet, the way it’s been for a while, now. And – Auston has to do a double take – the boss’ door is open, and it stays open, and no one is there when he glances inside.

 Willy’s sitting on Zach’s desk when Auston heads into their room. Their heads are bent together, and they’re talking in low voices, but they both look up when the door opens.

“Morning,” Zach says, and Auston holds up a hand, not quite a wave hello. Willy scoots over on the desk, making room for Auston to come sit, but Auston avoids his gaze and tugs over a chair.

 “Let’s be quick so we can head out, alright?” he says, brusque. “I’m sending you a picture, eleven, I need facial rec when you’re done today’s briefing. Direct to me.”

“Matts,” Zach says, his name, which means it’s not something work-related, and Auston has this absurd second of hope, but then Zach goes on, “It’s 043.”

Auston blinks. “Kadri?” he asks, off-guard. “What’d he do?”

“They assigned 016’s replacement,” Willy says, leaning in all conspiratorial. “Forty-three freaked out. Everyone heard. He walked right into the boss’ office and yelled in his face about giving up on his operatives.”

Auston breathes out, shocked. “Is 043-”

“Internal affairs guys came and dragged him out,” Zach says, and it hangs there, ominous. Auston’s seen operatives leave and never come back for forgetting to file evidence properly, he can’t imagine- yelling in the boss’ _face_ , Kadri’s fucking dead, if he’s lucky.

“He’ll be back,” Willy says, like he’s reading Auston’s mind. “He’s one of our best tactical guys, we’re already low on people since sixteen-”

 Zach coughs, and Willy breaks off.

Auston slowly unclenches his fingers.

They’ve been careful around him, since Mitch disappeared. Acting like he’s about to break down in tears at any given moment.

Auston’s not. Honest to god, not even close.

He sits straighter in his chair, looks around expectantly. “Is today’s briefing ready?” he asks. Zach and Willy just stare, taken aback, and Auston raps on the table, impatient. “Briefing, Agent 011, hello?”

Any other time, they’d give him so much shit for trying to be- Auston doesn’t even know, professional? It’s not them, that’s not how they’ve ever worked, but Auston can’t deal with them pitying him, today.

Zach doesn’t even call him out on it, which mostly just makes Auston feel worse.. “Sure, thirty-four,” he says, gentle, and nudges Willy off the desk, less gentle; starts pulling up the info for today.

Professional is good. There’s stuff Auston can focus on to get through the day. Show up, figure out who he’s supposed to kill, head out to kill them, repeat times a million.

Willy follows Auston down to the parking garage when they’re heading out, all good intentions and awful execution. “We could talk about it,” he offers, once they’re walking past the cars, footsteps echoing on the cement.

“Talk about what?” Auston asks, and keeps his voice deliberately even. He can see Willy raising his eyebrows, out of the corner of his eye. Doesn’t look over.

“You’re still a bad liar, man,” Willy says, easy enough, and Auston clenches his jaw, keeps walking and digs in his pocket for the keys.

The car makes a little chirp when he unlocks it, and Willy’s still talking.

 “You guys were close,” he says, and it’s like- it’s rehearsed, it’s William Nylander saying what he thinks Auston wants or needs to hear, and Auston really doesn’t need this, today. “You and 016-”

“Stop,” Auston cuts him off, and he moves to open the car door, but Willy catches his arm.

“Don’t close me out,” he says, and there’s something in his voice, entreating. “We can-”

“What, Will?” Auston demands, tugging his arm loose. “Sit and talk about our feelings?” That’s not them, never has been. Even the idea is- they’re partners, and that doesn’t work if Willy doesn’t think Auston can do his job.

“No,” Willy says, and he just stands there, and it’s the first time Auston’s ever seen him looking, like. Awkward. Unsure of where to go from here, because this isn’t territory they know. So – brilliant, congratulations, welcome to being a fucking human being. “I- I want to help-”

“I don’t need you to,” Auston says, and holds his gaze. “I’m fine. Swear to god.”

There’s a long, tense moment, then Willy nods. Steps out of the way so Auston can get in the car, then heads over to the passenger side.

He’s perfectly composed, once they’re both in the car. Auston might’ve imagined the whole conversation, Willy trying to talk to him about Mitch as if he knows what Auston’s been-

It’s fine.

They’re both fine.

They haven’t hooked up, since everything.

Auston just-

He can’t.

\---

The lobby of Mitch’s building smells vaguely like cigarette smoke, same as always. Auston turns down the hall, slides the envelope with this month’s rent under the landlady’s door.

He’s already walking away, heading for the elevator, when her door opens.

“Hey,” she calls after him, and Auston bites back a sigh, but turns around to meet her eyes. She’s staring at him, real hard. “You’re the one that’s been leaving Mike’s rent?”

Auston nods.

“Haven’t seen him around, recently.”

Auston shrugs. “He works shifts.”

The landlady narrows her eyes at him. “You know subletting’s not allowed, right?”

“I’m just taking care of the place for him,” Auston says, and the landlady doesn’t seem particularly convinced, but she kind of grunts, leans down to pick up the envelope.

“Right, then,” she says, then, as Auston turns to leave, already over it: “Make sure the other guy knows as well.”

Auston freezes.

Turns around, real slow.

“Other guy?”

The landlady’s not even looking at him, opening the envelope and examining the cheque, but she hums in agreement. “Came by yesterday,” she says; then, all suspicious, “If Mike’s subletting to two different fucking people-”

Auston ignores her, already stalking down the hall. It’s all the effort in the world to restrain himself – he breaks into a run the second he turns the corner, bypasses the elevator entirely and takes the stairs two at a time.

He bursts into the apartment, braced for a fight or an ambush or to find someone ransacking the place or, or maybe even-

The place is still and silent, just the way Auston left it. Lights off, the fridge humming away in the background. A blanket and pillow on the couch, where he’s been sleeping.

Fido’s swimming around in his bowl.

“Hi fishy,” Auston says, quiet.

He goes room by room, which doesn’t take more than five minutes. No one here.

The landlady might’ve been confused. There are lots of apartments in the building.

Auston can’t waste time. He picks his way across the papers and yarn and bulletin boards he set up in the living room, plants himself on the couch, and settles down to work, same as he’s been doing for as long as Mitch has been missing.

See: Auston was going to be an analyst. His combat scores are what got him recruited out of the bureau, why he’s here at all, why any of this is happening, but he was going to be an analyst. He knows how to put pieces together, how to see the bigger picture and solve a case.

He’s going to solve this one. He’s going to find Mitch.

It’s slow going – he’s working without any official clearance, his only intel whatever’s on the general database, or what he can get 011 to find under the guise of working on some secret case for the boss. It’s shitty, lying to his team, but Auston can’t chance it. They’d think he’s lost it, if he tried to explain.

There’s a pretty decent chance he has. It feels like it, sometimes, sitting on Mitch’s couch, with the coffee table and most of the floor and wall space taken up with images of every missing person or autopsy report that’s even close to Marns’ description; anything Auston can find with the name that Mitch mentioned, Ivanov, which isn’t a lot. The guy’s a ghost, doesn’t appear in police reports or Wanted lists or anything, but he’s got to exist, and he’s got to have Mitch somewhere, Auston just- He _knows_ it, he has to know it, because the alternative is-

There isn’t an alternative.

He’ll find Mitch.

Auston leans back into the couch, crossing his legs, and settles in to pick apart the latest lead – someone sent a severed finger to a police station in Thornhill, no note or anything. It’s hard to focus, tonight. He’s still buzzing from dashing upstairs to search the place, still planning out everything he’s got to do tomorrow. He’s got to check in with Willy, figure out some way to get the trafficker he’s tailing to talk, and the boss will want the debrief from that corrupt senator, and hopefully Hyms will have the results of facial rec on the picture, and-

Auston sits bolt upright.

The picture.

He gets up, sends papers and pictures scattering and doesn’t spare them a second glance, just books it to the kitchen and stops in front of Fido’s tank.

There’s a little square of dust where the photo of Mitch and his friends in their matching shirts was taped up on the wall, where it was since Mitch moved in. It’s not there anymore.

So: Three teenagers, two of whom are either missing or dead, in an old picture that’s now missing too, right out of a locked apartment. Auston’s hunch was right.

And- and the landlady was right too. Someone was here.

\---

The good news is it’s a lead, something to focus on other than listening to police scanners and waiting for Mitch to appear in a city morgue.

The really good news is that Auston took a picture of the picture before it got stolen, so that Zach could run it through facial rec. He kind of forgets that, with everything happening, until he’s at work the next day and Zach catches him by the sleeve before he can leave the room.

 “So I ran the picture you sent me,” Zach says, once Willy’s out of earshot, and Auston’s instantly alert.

“Fucking- _yes_ ,” he says, and doesn’t even pretend not to be embarrassingly eager. “The guy on the left, Davo, who is he?”

“Right,” Zach says, “So, about that. You’re completely sure he went to high school with Mitch?”

Auston nods. “Yeah, same year, why?”

Zach’s frowning, and he spins his chair around, starts bringing things up on one of his screens. “I checked in our system,” he says as he types, “then in the archives in case the files had just been changed or something, but it must’ve happened before they were copied-”

“What must’ve happened?” Auston asks, leaning in to look at the screen, to see-

“Nothing,” Zach says. “There’s nothing.”

It’s a scan of a school yearbook, a bunch of pictures of kids smiling against blue backgrounds, and as Zach scrolls down the page, Auston sees Mitch, smiling huge and looking all of twelve, but no Davo.

“What does that mean?” Auston asks, confused, and Zach shrugs.

“It means he’s not there,” he says. “Like all the other info is there, and it’s normal, and as far as I can tell it’s the right year, ‘cause 016 is on the list of ninth graders, but- nothing.”

“Outside of school stuff,” Auston says, because a yearbook isn’t exactly hard and fast facts, and Hyms is already shaking his head.

“I looked everywhere. Ran his face against drivers’ licenses, health cards. I even tried aging him up and down – nothing. This guy never existed.”

Auston drags a hand through his hair, mind racing. This is something, it has to be. People don’t just stop existing – Davo, whoever the fuck he was, was important, and this could mean that Mitch-

“What case is this for?” Zach asks, and Auston blinks, but recovers decently enough.

“Need to know,” he lies, smooth. “Boss asked me to take a look at it.”

Zach doesn’t even question it, just kind of goes ‘hm’ and looks real thoughtful. There’s no reason why he _should_ question it – they’re a team, they don’t lie to each other.

“Thanks anyways, eleven,” Auston says, pushing back his guilt, ready to go and get through the day so he can go home and work on what’s actually important. Zach looks surprised.

“You don’t want to hear about the other guy?”

\---

They have to drive way out of town to get to the address Zach gave. It’s a small office building in a small city, manicured lawns and pay parking and a sign out front with a list of all the businesses renting space inside.

Willy insisted on coming along, once he saw Auston heading out. Auston hesitated, but it’s not the worst outcome. Looks more legit if they go together, and Willy was content enough not to ask questions, once Auston said it was a job from the boss.

They’re sitting on the straight-backed chairs in the lobby, now, Auston tapping his fingers, impatient, while Willy snacks on mints from the bowl on the secretary’s desk and plays with the little foil wrappers. Neither of them has said anything about their not-argument in the parking garage. The job is priority, they both get that.

(Except, Auston thinks, slightly hysterically, this isn’t the job, this is him abusing resources and lying to his team and-

Priorities, Matthews.)

The secretary coughs. “You can head on in now,” she says. “Third floor, elevator’s on your left. His desk’s in the corner by the window.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Willy says, all charming, and she blushes while Willy steals another mint and Auston rolls his eyes. “You have a wonderful day, now.”

“Seriously?” Auston asks, once they’re in the elevator, and Willy grins.

“ _So_ seriously,” he agrees, and it’s the closest they’ve come to normal since everything went to shit, just the two of them out playing detective.

The third floor is a maze of cubicles. Most of them are occupied with people talking on the phone, chatting over the little barriers. One girl’s playing Tetris. The one in the corner is a little larger than some of the others, and its occupant is working on some document on his computer.

“Derek Peters?” Auston asks, knocking on the little wall, and Dylan Strome looks up at them.

“Yeah, hi,” he nods, this bored little thing. “They said you guys are from HR?”

Strome is almost unrecognizable from the version of himself in Mitch’s picture. His hair’s different, for one thing, and he’s not smiling, looks like he hasn’t in a while. His eyes keep darting from Auston to Willy and behind them, all paranoid. Auston feels stressed just looking at him, can’t quite reconcile this guy with the kid beaming and hugging his friends.

“We wanted to ask you a few questions,” Auston says, and Strome definitely wasn’t training to work in undercover, because he reacts instantly, visibly tensing up, kind of leaning back in his chair.

Auston and Willy exchange a look.

“You’re from HR?” Strome demands again, and Auston cuts right to the chase.

“We wanted to ask about your time with the government,” he says. Strome’s hand slips off the arm of his chair, obvious.

He shakes his head, recovers about as well as could be expected. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else, man, sorry,” he says, perfectly innocent, only perfectly innocent people don’t change their identities eight times in less than a decade and have fourteen different bank accounts and five passports, all under different names, the most recent of which is Derek Peters, IT guy with the regional branch of an insurance company.

“I don’t think we do, Derek,” Willy takes over, pleasant. He sets one of the wrappers from the secretary’s candy, folded into a little boat, down on Strome’s desk. “We just have a few questions-”

“I don’t have your answers,” Strome cuts him off, blunt, and turns his chair back toward his computer, shaking his head. “I’m trying to-”

“Try something else,” Willy suggests, polite enough to be horribly threatening, while Auston gets a hand on the back of Strome’s chair and spins him back around to face them.

Strome shakes his head, all bravado, reaching for his phone. “Look, I don’t know who you guys are, but I think I’m just going to let security-”

And Willy starts saying something, but Auston’s sick of waiting, isn’t about to come this far and have to deal with security guards. He reaches into his pocket, slams the printed out picture-of-a-picture down on Strome’s desk. He can see Willy and Strome taking it in at the same time, two separate reactions as Willy recognizes Mitch and Strome’s face does something complicated. He does this jerky little movement, like he’s about to reach for the printout and stops himself just in time.

“Mitch is missing,” Auston says, low. “Maybe dead. You’re the best chance we have of finding out which one it is.”

Willy’s staring at Auston, and Auston knows he’s caught off guard, but he stays quiet.

Strome looks right at Auston. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says, slow and deliberate, enunciating every word. It’s a bold-faced lie, gutsy even to try, but he doesn’t back down, and it occurs to Auston that he may have underestimated this guy.

“Please, Dylan,” Auston says, changing tack. “You were his friend. Him and Davo, right?”

It does the opposite of what Auston wanted – Strome flinches when Auston uses his real name, then, the second he says Davo, it’s like Strome closes off, shutters closing behind his eyes.

“You should call the police, if you’re trying to find a missing person,” he says, curt, and then he spins his chair around again, and this time, Auston doesn’t stop him. “Unless you need IT help, the door’s behind you.”

And Willy’s looking at Auston, waiting for some kind of signal of what to do next, if they’re going to make a scene or go good cop bad cop or what, but Auston just stares at the back of Dylan Strome’s head, goes through his options, then turns on his heel and leaves.

Some fucking friend.

Auston storms past the secretary at her desk and out into the parking lot, walks right across the grass.

“The hell?” Willy asks, jogging to keep up with Auston. He’s holding the copy of the picture Auston forgot, crumpled in one hand. “He knew 016?”

“Apparently not,” Auston says, through gritted teeth. Talking to the guy isn’t going to work, clearly, but – what’re his options, here? Break into Strome’s house, threaten to rough him up? Auston has no authority here, none whatsoever. He could- what, arrest him?

Will slides into the passenger seat of the car, still talking as Auston turns the key. “Who’s the other guy in the picture?” he asks. “What case is this?”

“Need to know,” Auston says, short, and cranks the radio up to end the conversation there.

If he goes forward with this, he’s a literal criminal; he goes back, he loses his only lead. The picture was what this whole thing hinged on, and it’s a fucking dead end.

\---

It feels inevitable when Auston and Willy get called into the boss’ office a couple of days later.

They stand there, side by side, in front of the boss as he stares them down. Auston’s mind is racing – he knew this was a risk, but he doesn’t know how much the boss knows. Doesn’t want to tip his hand, doesn’t want to let Willy take the fall for this, doesn’t – can’t – stop here, because then who’s going to find Mitch?

After thirty seconds, a minute of silence, the boss turns to Willy. “Agent 029,” he says. “What were you two doing in Aurora, on Thursday?”

“Following up a lead,” Auston says. The boss doesn’t even look at him.

“I asked your partner,” he says. “The visit didn’t seem to fit any of your current case files.”

Auston can feel Will staring at him, can practically hear his brain whirring away. He keeps his eyes resolutely forward. _Pleasepleaseplease_ , he’s thinking, praying to anyone who’s listening, and knowing as he does that it’s hopeless, because protocol is essentially Willy’s entire moral compass, and lying to the boss’ face isn’t in the protocol. Then-

“What thirty-four said, sir,” Willy says. There’s barely even a pause between the question and the answer, and the only reason that the boss doesn’t notice the look of surprise on Auston’s face is because he looks the same, like he wasn’t expecting Willy’s answer. “Just tying up loose ends from the art smuggling thing last month. The debrief should be in as soon as 011 arrives.”

He’s a good liar. Professional, straightforward. The art thing was in Aurora, right in the same area; and Zach’s been at training for most of this week. It’s the perfect excuse.

Auston doesn’t dare look at him.

The boss sighs, leans back on his desk. “Protocol’s important, you understand, boys?” he says. Auston could almost think it sounds friendly, if he was an idiot. “The system’s in place for a reason. It’s what makes us successful.”

“Yes, sir,” Willy says, and Auston nods.

“We expect great things from the both of you,” the boss says, and Willy stands up a little straighter, proud, while Auston wonders when that sentence started to feel more like a threat than a compliment.

Willy makes a beeline for the bathroom when the boss dismisses them, and Auston’s known him for long enough to know that he’s supposed to follow.

It sort of feels like walking towards an execution. Willy walks into the bathroom without even looking at Auston, slams a fist down on the hand dryer so that it starts with a dull roar, background noise, then heads into one of the stalls.

Auston follows him, shuts the door behind him, and then it’s just the two of them, inches between them and no cameras in sight.

“Thank you,” Auston says, as he turns, only then Willy’s shoving him, hard, into the wall.

 “You lied,” Willy hisses, and he jabs at Auston’s chest so it hurts, face twisted and furious like Auston’s never seen him. “You said it was for a case, you fucking liar-”

“It’s not not for a case,” Auston says, and Willy gapes at him.

“You’re going to _joke_ about this?” he demands, this weird whisper-shout. “You’re going to drag me and eleven into abusing top secret information like it’s a joke?”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Auston says, swatting Willy away when he tries to shove him again, but Willy just comes right back at him.

“Too bad,” he snarls. “You didn’t think to share the fact that you’re committing treason? Like, that wasn’t worth mentioning, maybe one of the times I was fucking you, something like that?” He swings at Auston again, cramped in the three foot wide stall, and, frustrated, Auston pushes back. He pins Willy against the other wall of the stall with one arm, easy, because Willy can fight, sure, but fighting is Auston’s _job_.

“ _Stop_ ,” he orders, sums up every ounce of authority he has, like that’s ever worked with him and Willy before. “You saw the same thing I did, something’s wrong.”

“They don’t tell us everything, so what, just because you can’t handle not being in control-”

Auston shakes his head. The hand dryer went off ages ago, and their words are echoing, too loud. “That’s not what this is,” he says.

Willy strains against Auston’s arm, practically spitting out his words, “We’re the best team they have and you’re just going to throw it away for some conspiracy theory? Because your boyfriend died?”

“They’re hiding something-”

“My entire family is in this organization,” Will all-but-shouts over him, ragged, and they’re head to head, no one whispering anymore. “My dad, _my little brother_. If I get caught up in anything my family is done, and you couldn’t even tell me?”

“You would’ve tried to stop me,” Auston says, and Willy’s looking at him like he doesn’t even know him.

“I would’ve followed you _anywhere_ ,” Willy says. His voice breaks near the end.

It’s been years that Auston’s been wondering what he’d have to do to get Willy to show some real emotion, but now that it’s happening he wishes it never had, wishes they could go back to before this whole thing started. Willy’s not supposed to care about shit. Not about him.

Auston opens his mouth then closes it. There’s nothing he can say.

There’s footsteps as someone else walks into the bathroom, and Auston and Willy both fall silent.

Whoever it is stops in front of the mirrors instead of heading into a stall, and for one awful moment, Auston thinks they’ve come for him, but then the faucet turns on, and the person starts humming as they wash their hands.

Auston’s still got his arm across Willy’s chest, holding him in place. They both know Willy could yell out to whoever it is, get Auston dragged off to wherever they take insubordinate operatives so he’d never be seen again.

Willy doesn’t. Just stands there, chest heaving, and they’re staring at each other, pressed right up close and as far apart as they’ve ever been.

The door clicks closed as the other person leaves, and Auston pulls back straight away, lets Willy go and opens the stall, needing an escape.

He grips the counter by the sinks, tries to catch his breath. When he looks up, he sees Willy’s reflection in the mirror, back by the stalls.

Willy’s completely and utterly expressionless, and when he speaks, it’s cold like Auston’s only ever heard him be while undercover. “I’ll tell them,” he says, dead serious, and it doesn’t feel like a threat, it feels like a fact. “Back off this, or I’ll tell them.”

Auston doesn’t respond. There’s a beat, and then Willy goes, and Auston’s left standing there alone.

\---

It feels like when Mitch died, and Auston realizes that it’s not the same, but that’s how it feels.

Willy requests a new team, and his stuff’s already out of the room when Auston gets into work the next morning. Auston’s not surprised, not even a little, but it stings all the same. It’s worse for Zach, who’s confused and hurt and pretending not to be. The three of them have been together since they started, Willy and Zach even before that, working together all through training. For that to be over so suddenly...

Connor Brown, 028, gets reassigned as their undercover operative. He fits in well. Generally seems like too trustworthy of a person to specialize in undercover, which is probably why he’s so good at undercover, and he is, and more than decent at combat stuff as well.

The first time they’re out in the field together, Auston turns and expects to see Willy at his side, and is startled when he doesn’t. It feels wrong.

Life goes on. He and Zach studiously don’t mention anything about Willy, even when Zach buys one of his gross chai lattes instead of 028’s hot chocolate by accident. Auston catches glimpses of Kadri around the bullpen, still alive, which is maybe hopeful. It doesn’t feel like it.

He’s hit a wall, looking for Mitch. He hasn’t found anything about Ivanov, hasn’t seen anything suspicious in any of Mitch’s team’s past arrests, no patterns or pieces to fit into a solution.

Auston thinks, absurdly, that it’d be easier to find Mitch if he could just talk to him for a couple minutes, or- or maybe just kiss him again, or sit next to him and get told he’s a good guy in spite of all the evidence to the contrary; if he could bounce ideas off of Willy and get snarky responses back.

He doesn’t have either of them, anymore.

\---

The door to Mitch’s apartment is open, just a crack, when Auston gets there close to one in the morning. It’s a Friday night, and he almost got killed twice today, and he wants more than anything to sleep, but he’s got to work on Mitch’s case, and all that’s going through his head, and-

And the door is open.

Auston doesn’t have a gun, doesn’t have anything even close to a weapon, but he grabs his phone, figures it’ll at least be an annoyance, if he hits someone with it hard enough. He doesn’t feel scared, nothing even close. Maybe even a little bit eager – he hasn’t got a single thing left to lose, let someone fucking try him, tonight.

He takes a breath, kicks open the door, and rushes in.

He sees the back of a head, someone sitting on the couch, real comfy, holding the stack of reports Auston’s been examining.

“You,” he says, and Dylan Strome peers over at him and waves, this dorky gesture that catches Auston off guard.

“Dylan,” Strome says, without getting up. “But you know that already.” He eyes Auston, raises an eyebrow. “Want to close the door before we both get killed, or...”

Auston does. Moves into the apartment, toward the kitchen, keeping his gaze locked on Strome the whole time.

“This place is kind of a shithole, huh?” Dylan says, conversational.

“Mitch likes it.” Auston says, and he puts a hand next to Fido’s bowl, protective. It’s the first place Mitch got on his own, the first place he and Auston really became friends. There’s an outdoor rink maybe a block away, and in winter the sound carries, music and people laughing.

“Yeah, he would,” Dylan kind of laughs, then tosses the papers he’s holding onto the coffee table and gets up. “It’s really dumb of me to be here,” he says. “Like, it was dumb of you to go looking for me, but it’s _really_ fucking dumb of me to be here. If Bettman finds out I’m getting involved, after everything-”

“Bettman,” Auston says, frowning. Where does he know that name from?

Dylan looks surprised. “You’ve heard of him?”

“No,” Auston says, because he hasn’t, he’s pretty sure. But- still. “I don’t know, the name rings a bell. Who is he?”

“Your boss’ boss’ boss,” Dylan says.

“I-” Auston starts then stops. He can’t say one way or another if Strome is right – there’s no such thing as transparency in their organization. He doesn’t know the name of his direct superior, let alone their- what, president? Director? He doesn’t even know what the management system is like, just that it’s the system, and they don’t question it.

Dylan looks like he was expecting that reaction, leaning on the back of the couch, maybe five feet away from Auston. “He’s basically a ghost,” he says. “Controls everything, though. Whole agency.”

“We’re government,” Auston says, and Dylan shrugs.

“Unofficially, sure. On paper you’re all his.” Auston doesn’t like the sound of that. Government means they’re working towards something, _you’re all his_ means- it means something else. “He’s the one who recruited the three of us, me and Davo and Marns.”

“Davo,” Auston says. “From the picture.”

“Connor McDavid,” Dylan nods, and he doesn’t sound different, exactly, but. There’s something, when he says McDavid’s name, gone when he continues. “You’re tactical, right? He was too. That’s why Bettman wanted us.”

“You got recruited by a ghost,” Auston says, skeptical.

“He wasn’t in charge back then,” Dylan says. “Just of training. The numbers were his idea, actually, ages ago. Sort of a 007 kind of thing.”

Auston frowns. “What’s your point?” he asks. “I don’t know what this is- what does Bettman have to do with anything? With Mitch?”

Strome sighs. Takes a second, and the place is just quiet, anticipating, and then he speaks. “Our last year of training,” he says, like he’s telling a story. “You know how it is. Mostly busywork, just surveillance and stuff, supposed to teach us team structure. The system, or whatever.”

“We were listening to these marks – like, mafia or something, not even big deal mafia – and they mentioned Bettman. By name. We assumed they were trying to kill him, or something like that. Davo went and told Bettman about it,” Dylan says, and his whole face changes, his lip curling like he just swallowed something bitter. “So he’d be _safe_.”

He glances down, collecting himself, then back up at Auston. “Four days later, we’re doing routine surveillance, same case, trying to decide if we should send Mitchy in as a distraction ‘cause Davo was inside and the bad guys were getting close, and then the building just-”

He makes this violent gesture then breaks off, and Auston lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Mitch kept that picture of him, him and Dylan and McDavid, for _years_. Auston could never figure why.

The pause is longer, this time. Auston has this weird urge to reach out and, like, comfort Dylan, but he doesn’t even know what he’d say. It was years ago, not his thing to grieve.

“The guys who did it confessed and everything,” Dylan says, eventually. “Apparently it was a revenge thing. Connor was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He scoffs, this harsh sound. “I erased myself from their records and got the fuck out. Mitchy stayed. Davo must’ve acted like he was the only one who heard them talk about Bettman. I don’t know why else they would’ve left us alive.”

“You think McDavid got set up,” Auston says, quiet.

Dylan’s laughs, humourless. “I think I have trouble believing that someone decided that the right way to get revenge for some feud from _fifteen_ years ago was to blow up a building that was supposed to be empty, four days after we heard a bunch of criminals discussing a high-level classified operative, yeah.”

It’s quiet. Fido swims in a circle, and they both watch.

If Strome is right, if this thing goes up high, if he’s right about Bettman...

“It’s been years,” Auston says, because he doesn’t make assumptions, not in this job. “Why would Bettman suddenly decide to tie up the loose ends?”

“Something changed,” Dylan shrugs. “Maybe Bettman got spooked, Marns found something, I don’t know.”

“He was working a completely separate case,” Auston says. “Something with his team. He didn’t tell you anything about it?”

“I haven’t spoken to him since I left,” Dylan says, and he sounds genuinely torn up about it. Living on the run must be lonely, Auston realizes. “Haven’t been anywhere near him.”

But, hang on-

“That’s- no,” Auston says, shaking his head. “You broke in here and took the picture from the wall.”

“The picture,” Dylan says, slow, like he doesn’t get where this is going. “The one you showed me?”

“Yes,” Auston says. “You were here.”

“I wasn’t,” Dylan says, and Auston frowns, stares him down. “I haven’t seen that picture in years, I swear to god.”

“The landlady saw you,” Auston says, except even as he says it he realizes it’s not true. The landlady saw _someone_ , a guy. Could’ve been anyone. “If it wasn’t you, then...”

He and Strome look at each other. There’s a noise from in the kitchen, the fridge whirring, and they both jump.

“I need to go,” Dylan says.

“Back to Aurora?” Auston asks, and Dylan shakes his head.

“Out of the country, probably,” he says. “I’m not getting mixed up in this again.” He hesitates, then meets Auston’s eyes. “Don’t poke around with Bettman,” he advises. “He killed Davo, he killed Mitch-”

“Mitch isn’t dead,” Auston stops him, automatic. “We don’t know he’s dead.”

Dylan looks pitying. “You don’t know the kind of people you work for,” he says, looking Auston right in the eyes. “If Bettman wanted him dead, if he got someone else to do it for him, doesn’t matter – he’s dead.”

\---

The funny part is, after all that, Willy might’ve been right about the conspiracy theory thing.

Auston’s not sure what he believes. He doesn’t _not_ buy what Strome said, because it feels awfully plausible, but it’s like something from a movie, Mitch caught up in some criminal mastermind’s web.

Auston waits ‘til 028 is out on a coffee run then comes over and perches on Zach’s desk. “Hyms,” he says, trying and probably failing to sound casual. “Can you get a file for me?”

Zach’s already opening a new tab. “What file?” he asks. He’s been more of a workaholic than usual since Willy left, like he’s singlehandedly going to hold their team together by being a human computer.

“Ivanov,” Auston says. “Recent op.” It’s that name Mitch mentioned, again. If Strome’s onto something with the Bettman thing, Auston figures, the two have got to be connected, because Mitch wouldn’t have gone poking around his dead best friend’s case without telling Auston. It has to be Ivanov, there has to be something there.

Zach’s brow is furrowed as he pulls up the file. “File’s locked,” he says. “Means it’s still active. Sorry, thirty-four.” He narrows his eyes at the screen, taps at the little title in the header. “012, 043,” he reads. “These are our guys, right? 016’s team?”

“Yeah,” Auston says. “It was his case. I’m just- closing up the file.”

Zach either doesn’t hear that pathetic attempt at a lie, or ignores it. “That’s weird,” he says.

“What’s weird?”

“Mitch’s ID isn’t on this.” Auston looks at the screen, and sure enough, there’s no 016 in sight, not even when Zach brings up the ID tags. He looks at Auston. “You’re sure this was his case?”

“Yes,” Auston says. “Unless there’s another Ivanov we were investigating, I don’t...”

Zach’s biting his lip, drumming his fingers on his trackpad. “Maybe-” He glances at Auston and breaks off.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe they remove the identifiers after a death in the field?” Zach suggests, apologetic. He scoots his chair closer to the desk, brings up a bunch of new windows, and then he’s frowning again, utterly confused. “Where’s- the briefing where they told us he was MIA, it’s not on record.”

“His other cases,” Auston says, and when Zach types in Mitch’s ID, 016, nothing comes up.

“It’s probably my computer,” Zach says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Maybe if I reboot it-”

“Check the yearbook,” Auston says, something dawning on him, slow. “Check the grade nine yearbook.”

Zach pulls it up, the scans from some school board archive, and scrolls through the PDF, fast. There’s still no picture of Connor McDavid, but now, when they get to the M’s, it goes from MANCINI to MARTIN, nothing in between, like Mitch never existed.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Zach’s saying, at a loss, “a hack on this scale, across our entire system and my private servers, you’d have to-”

To have the resources of an entire secret agency at your disposal.

“Where are you going?” Zach asks, but Auston’s already on his way out of the room. He crosses the bullpen in maybe a dozen strides, bangs on the door of the other ops room and walks in without waiting for an invitation.

Kadri and Marleau are sitting across from each other, a bunch of hand-drawn maps spread out in front of them, mid-conversation.

“Woah,” Kadri says, and Auston doesn’t wait for hellos, doesn’t have time to waste.

“You back up your stuff, right?” he asks, directly to Marleau, because he’s their tech and their leader. “Private server?”

Marleau nods, wary, glancing at Kadri. “Everyone does, what is this ab-”

“I need access to your files on the Ivanov case.”

Marleau blinks, incredulous, which is probably fair. “I’m sorry?” he asks, and Auston steps further into the room, sees the camera blinking above him and can’t bring himself to care.

“Mitch got set up,” he says, simple. “Someone high up-”

Marleau talks over him, eyes wide, all scandalized, “Agent 034-”

Kadri, uncharacteristically silent thus far, stands up and, without a word, reaches up and yanks the security camera right out of the wall, leaving frayed wires behind. Auston gapes at him.

“Naz,” Marleau says, tired, but Kadri shakes his head.

“You need to let this go,” he says to Auston, low and urgent, leaning in close like the security camera is somehow still going to pick them up. “I’m saying this for your own good. There’s nothing we can do, you understand?”

Auston shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

“Heartwarming,” Kadri says, dripping with sarcasm. “Now let it go.”

“Let Mitch go,” Auston says, struggling to keep his tone even. “Like you two did, or-”

Kadri’s eyes flash, dangerous. “Careful, thirty-four,” he says, but Auston’s done being careful, has been done for weeks, maybe ever since Mitch showed up at his door looking like he’d been in a warzone.

“He’s your teammate,” Auston says, Auston _accuses_ , pulling himself up to his full height. “He’s your brother, you’re just going to-”

“He’s _dead_ ,” Kadri snaps, right in Auston’s face, and Auston’s never flinched away from a fight, but he comes pretty close, here. “He’s dead, Matthews, and you want to question that, don’t come crying when you get dragged off to some base somewhere and-”

“Forty-three,” Marleau says, sharp, and there’s this deadly moment, Auston and 043 staring each other down, and then Kadri breaks eye contact, looks through the open door and in the direction of the boss’ office, and the look on his face-

He’s _scared_.

And Auston remembers, of course he does, 043 storming into the boss’ office to give him shit about replacing Mitch, getting dragged out of the building by internal affairs and not being seen for almost two weeks, coming back and falling in line like a good soldier. They aren’t rumours for Kadri, Auston realizes, the rumours about what happens when agents are insubordinate.

The frayed wires from the camera spark, just once.

“I’m not fucking up again,” Kadri says, shattering the silence. “I’m not getting in trouble again. Don’t involve me in this.”

With one last glance at the boss’ office, then at Marleau, he storms off.

\---

There’s never much traffic around, which is convenient, for a secret headquarters. None of the other nearby buildings are occupied, bought out or maybe just left, like this one. It used to house some sports supplier, Auston’s pretty sure.

He’s sitting at the top level of the parking garage, the spot between the pillars where he and Mitch ate lunch together.

Eat lunch together. He’s not doing past tense. That would be giving up, and he’s not, he just-

He doesn’t know what else he can do. Mitch is gone, and someone’s trying to make it seem like he was never here. And It’s Bettman, Auston knows it, and it’s connected to Mitch’s last case, but he’s got no way of proving it, no way of using that information to get any closer to having Marns back.

 “So this is where Mitchy disappears off to,” says a voice from behind Auston. He jumps, looks over his shoulder to see 012 standing there, holding his bag and jacket. Auston relaxes. “Mind if I join you?”

Auston nods, shifts over so Marleau can sit down next to him.

Marleau looks around, down at the street below. “Nice place.”

“Yeah,” Auston says. “It’s- there’re blindspots for the cameras, all through the garage. They can’t read our lips, here.”

012 doesn’t look remotely surprised, and Auston feels dumb. Marleau’s been with the agency for years, recruited as a kid like everyone else. He’s been finding his way around regulations for about as long as Auston’s been alive.

They sit for a while, just quiet, then, just when Auston’s about to ask what he’s doing here:

“He never killed anyone before,” Marleau says.

“Wha- who, Mitch?” Auston blinks, and Marleau nods. “How is that possible?” he asks. That’s their _job_ , that’s half the reason they exist, to do stuff governments aren’t officially allowed.

 “Talked his way out of it, usually. Or Naz and I got there by the time it got bad. We took care of it.”

Auston kind of shakes his head, stunned. Every team’s different, he gets that, but usually undercover’s the one working in the field with tactical, that’s just how it is and death is a part of that, there’s no way-

But.

But the way Mitch reacted whenever Auston talked about hurting people on the job, his stubborn insistence that they were the good guys, always doing the good thing.

There’s no way.

Marleau is still going. “Except Ivanov had this initiation, sort of, to his inner circle. Like hazing. ‘Give our drug to someone without them knowing’, like that.” He looks at Auston, serious, and Auston’s stomach sinks. He knows where this story is going. “The guy basically had a pharmacy in him before Mitch even gave him anything. He OD’d. Completely random, nothing Mitchy could’ve done.”

 Auston shuts his eyes. “Shit.”

“Sixteen was... he was upset,” Marleau says, quiet, and Auston knows without asking that it’s an understatement. He saw how Mitch was when he showed up at his door, and he gets it now, because Auston was a wreck too, first time he killed someone.

“I asked if we could extract him, give the case to someone else.”

“They said no.” Auston says, certain, and Marleau nods.

“Boss said it was well-suited to his skillset,” he says, steady as ever. “I suggested 029, or 028, but they wanted Mitch for this one. Him specifically.” And something in Marleau’s voice, then-

“You believe me,” Auston realizes, sitting up straight. “About them setting him up.”

Marleau looks down, serious, and Auston shuts up. “I’ve worked for this agency my whole life,” Marleau says, careful. “I have a family. I wouldn’t jeopardize either of those things.”

“You have a family?” Auston asks, taken aback all over again. He knew about Willy’s family, fine, but that’s so, so rare. Operatives don’t usually live long enough. “Do they-”

“They don’t know,” Marleau says, and he sounds resigned but also just _sad_ at the thought of lying to his family, and Auston just- it makes it sink in, more than the Bettman thing, more than blood under his nails and Willy practicing to kill people since he was a kid and Mitch having to kill someone for the first time, that there can’t be good here. He can’t see good, not in any of this.

“Sorry,” he says, too late and too useless.

“It is what it is,” Marleau says, simple, and then he looks at Auston, almost appraising, before reaching over to open his bag. He hands Auston a file.

Like, an actual, paper file-folder, _Ivanov_ written in cramped writing on the little label, crammed full of loose-leaf pages of all different sizes. Loose-leaf pages that, Auston realizes, couldn’t have been altered since they were printed. He looks at Marleau, incredulous. “What’s this?”

Marleau grins, just one corner of his mouth. “Private server,” he says.

\---

Grigor Ivanov, Auston learns, is a scientist gone drug manufacturer gone absolutely fucking Breaking Bad style batshit; the brain behind what is, as far as Auston can tell, some kind of modified LSD. It’s over his head, a little. Auston skims over the science, drawings of chemical structures and pages of notes about _receptor agonists_ and _extremely potent hallucinations_ and _a tendency to augment rather than distort reality_ ; there are pictures, real disturbing ones – apparently Ivanov was fond of testing his drug on people.

Then, something leaps out.

 _034029011 OPERATIONAL DEBRIEF CASE NO. AN9K4 – EXCERPT WITH SPECIAL PERMISSION_. Auston scans over the page – it’s the writeup from that mission months and months ago, with Ana the arms dealer and Willy’s fancy sunglasses and an apartment full of rich people tripping on some designer drug. Auston remembers Willy’s hands shaking, connects the dots to standing at his front door, watching Mitch’s hands tremble, just the same. They’d passed the drug case onto someone else, at the time, need to know. Apparently that someone, those someones, had been Mitch’s team.

Auston flips through Marleau’s folder, heart racing, ‘til he gets to a stack of financial records, lists of businesses and shell companies and names linked to Ivanov. It’s like Auston’s searching for a needle in a haystack, trying to sort through all the aliases and deals and-

And then _there_ , buried in the middle of a page so that Auston has to do a double take, a name next to an offshore account attached to some dummy corporation: _BETTMAN, GARY_.

Auston springs to his feet, pumps his fist. “Yes!” He smoothes out the paper in front of him, triumphant. This is _it_ , this is his proof, Bettman’s been cutting deals with the people the agency is trying to stop, has maybe been doing it for years, safe under a name no one knows, until one of his connections came under investigation and happened to get assigned to one of the few people to know who he is.

All he had to do was get rid of the one person left who could put a face to the name.

Auston sits down slowly, reality sinking back in.

So he has Bettman’s name linked to a company that gets money from Ivanov. What now? He can’t bring it to the boss, because who knows what the boss is involved with. He could be reporting directly to Bettman. And Strome was right, when he said Bettman’s a ghost – no one would even know that the guy on the sheet is the head of their organization.

It’s something steely, the resolve that settles in Auston’s gut.

No work, then. No help.

No more distractions.

He’s ending this.

\---

It is, of all the clichés, an abandoned warehouse, where things go down.

Zach parks out front and peers up at the building, skeptical. The property is linked to one of the companies from the Ivanov file, the closest one. The most convenient.

“Should we be calling backup?” Zach asks, glancing at Auston. “028, or- or someone with clearance, we should-”

Auston shakes his head, doesn’t take his eyes off of the warehouse. “Need to know,” he says, and undoes his seatbelt. “Wait in the car,” he orders. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, drive away, and tell 016’s team to come here, okay?”

“Auston,” Zach says, stunned into using his real name, but Auston’s already leaving, doesn’t let himself look back.

It’s easier than he’s expecting, almost anti-climatic. Auston’s ready for an army, for anything, but the place is mostly empty, just winding hallways littered with trash. Auston checks each door he passes, finds nothing. It’s not where Ivanov does business, probably exists mostly as an asset on paper.

It’s almost a relief when he finds a lone guard, sitting in a chair and playing some game on his phone, headphones in so he doesn’t hear Auston coming. A guard means there’s something to be guarded. Someone.

“Don’t try it,” Auston orders, once he’s behind the guy and has his gun cocked. The guard drops his phone, flinches like he wants to reach for a weapon, but stays still.

“Where is he?” Auston asks, flat, and presses the butt of his gun against the guy’s head, listens to him whimper. Bastard. “Three seconds. Three, two-”

“He’s in there, please, don’t kill me,” the guard says, and he points with one shaking finger to the third room from the end of the hall.

“Thank you,” Auston says, and puts a bullet in his brain, doesn’t stay to watch him slump to the ground.

Any number of guards could be hiding, waiting to jump out and kill him, but Auston doesn’t even notice, just kicks the phone out of the way, stalks down the hall, and tries the door handle.

It’s not locked, which should probably be Auston’s first clue that something’s majorly wrong. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t stop to think, just tucks his gun into its holster and pushes open the door, no hesitation.

The room is filthy, unfinished drywall and cracked tile flooring, and there, lying in a corner-

“Mitch,” Auston says, mostly without meaning to, already across the room and on his knees next to Mitch before consciously deciding to be. Mitch isn’t even tied up, but there are a million other things to focus on, like his black eye, the needle marks on his arms, the way he’s just laying there curled up on his side, kind of mumbling to himself.

Alive. He’s alive.

“Mitch,” Auston says again, and his voice cracks when he speaks. “Mitchy, hey, buddy, hi.” His hands hover at Mitch’s sides, unsure. Mitch lifts his head to look at him. It looks like it takes effort.

“Aus’n,” he says. He’s all slurred, eyes unfocused. High out of his mind, Auston realizes, and before he can do anything, Mitch’s head lolls back and he’s out of it again.

Auston needs to get him out of here.

“You’re okay now,” he says, and gets to his feet, hauls Mitch up with him – it’s too easy, he’s skin and bones – and gets an arm around his waist. “Okay,” he says, even though Mitch doesn’t seem to be hearing or processing. “Okay, we’re just going to get outside. We’re okay.”

He shoves open the door with his shoulder, half-carries, half-drags Mitch down the hall, past the body on the floor. The warehouse is dead silent, just the ominous noises of a condemned and empty building, and Auston rounds the last turn to get to the front door, and he should’ve expected that things wouldn’t go this easy, because:

 “Don’t move,” Willy says, and his gun is levelled at Auston’s head.

Auston feels like he could cry _,_ like he just got hit by a car. They’re so _close_. “Don’t do this,” he says, and it’s pointless, but he has to try. Mitch is dead weight at his side, and he smells like sweat, and Auston just wants to get him out of here. “They set him up, Will-”

“Bullshit,” Willy says, clipped. “That is bullshit.”

They’re standing at opposite ends of the hall, staring each other down. It’s wrong, being on the other end of Willy’s gun instead of at his side. Just _wrong_ , not making sense in Auston’s head.

“They erased Mitch from the system,” he says, willing Willy to understand. “He saw that the people high up were making deals-”

“ _You’ve_ been making deals,” Willy cuts him off. “Selling information to the people who work here-”

“That’s what they’re telling you?” Auston asks. “You don’t honestly believe that, it’s- you see what they did to him.”

Willy stays expressionless. “You’re trying to lie again. It won’t work,” he says. He keeps his gun pointed at Auston’s forehead.

“What did they give you?” Auston asks. He’s desperately stalling, the only thing he can think to do with his gun in its holster, his arms busy keeping Mitch upright. “Your own team? A gold star from dad?” He inches backward the tiniest bit, throws out what he thinks will hurt the most, throw Willy off. Fighting dirty, like always. “Or you’re just mad I choose him, is that it?”

He backs up again, has half a mind to dodge into one of the open doors and at least have a chance to get Mitch out of the way, but Willy’s finger twitches on the trigger, a warning.

“I said don’t move, 034.” That’s his only reaction – he’s totally inscrutable, and it’s terrifying, a little, because Auston knows Willy’s good at his job, has seen him be everyone except William Nylander since the day they met, but never this completely, never with _him_. Willy’s looking at him like he’s a stranger.

Auston can’t- he’s debating his odds if he drops Mitch and goes for his gun, but he doesn’t want to hurt Willy, doesn’t even know if he could without Willy taking him out first, or just going for Mitch; it’s a no-win, and Auston’s got no tactics, no plan, then-

“What the hell?”

Zach’s standing in the doorway behind Willy, looking, horrified, at one of his teammates pointing a gun at the other, who’s currently holding their high and supposedly-dead coworker.

He’s not supposed to be here.

“What is this?” Zach demands, rushing in so he’s standing in between them and turning to glare at Willy. “Twenty-nine, _what_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Get out of the way, 011,” Willy says, shifting slightly so he can keep his sights on Auston over Zach’s shoulder.

“Hyms, you should leave-”

“Don’t tell him what to do,” Will practically snarls, across Auston. “Don’t talk to him-”

“You’re the one pointing a gun at him!” Auston snaps, frustrated.

“Oh, don’t act like I’d _ever_ -”

“What, sell out your team for your job-”

“Both of you _calm down_ ,” Zach orders, sharp and as loud as he’s ever been, and him raising his voice is shocking enough that Auston and Willy both fall silent. Willy keeps his gun trained on Auston’s head. Auston clutches Mitch tighter. The three of them stand there, spaced single file down the hallway.

“Alright,” Zach says, and the effort that it’s taking to keep his voice under control is audible. “Alright, someone explain, _calmly_.”

“He’s been lying to you,” Willy says, before Auston can open his mouth. “Ask him about that photo he had you check.”

“They wanted to kill Mitch,” Auston says, desperate, and Zach turns to meet his eyes. “The guy in charge of this whole thing was going to kill Mitch because of something he saw when he was a kid, I had to get info and you’re the only one who knows how to find stuff. “ His words are coming out rushed, but he just- he can’t lose Zach too, after everything. “I never would have lied if I’d had a choice. I’m sorry.”

Zach’s looking at him, and Auston’s expecting anger or betrayal or something on those lines, but instead Zach just looks kind of exasperated, eyebrows raised, like _really_.

“You knew,” Auston realizes, slow. “You knew it wasn’t for a case.”

“No, he didn’t,” Willy says, before Zach can talk. “Eleven.”

“I’m not stupid, Auston,” Zach says, and Willy’s shaking his head, fast. “You had me looking up stuff about Mitch, it was obvious.”

“But you helped me anyways,” Auston says, and Zach opens his mouth to speak, probably to say something about plausible deniability, but-

“No,” Willy says, forceful, and his eyes almost look wet, like this is what finally did it. He looks completely lost, shaken like Auston’s never seen. “No, both of you shut up.”

Zach looks at him, pained. “There’re so many altered files, Willy,” he says. “They’re covering something up.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Willy says, clinging to his gun, white knuckled.

“They did.”

Willy’s still shaking his head, still holding his gun level at Auston’s head, but his hand’s unsteady. “My dad wouldn’t work for someone who’d do that,” he says thickly, and Zach steps closer, talking real slow, placating.

“There’s no evidence that he knew,” Zach says. “There’s no evidence that anyone else knew.”

He’s right in front of Willy, now, shielding Auston and Mitch, intentionally or not. Auston’s holding his breath, staring at Willy, and he shifts so he’s a little bit in front of Mitch, but Willy’s not even looking at him anymore, just at Zach, eyes wide.

“You have to trust me on this one,” Zach says. “Okay?”

“ _Zach_ ,” Will says, so, so quiet.

Zach shakes his head, jabs at Willy’s chest as if he’s not a highly lethal field agent holding a gun. Doesn’t quite land at his usual bossiness, but makes a valiant attempt, almost normal. “I need you to- you’re going to listen to your tech here, William, okay?”

Willy glances over Zach’s shoulder, meets Auston’s eyes for the briefest second, then pulls the trigger.

Auston drops to the ground, throws himself on top of Mitch, all reflex; hears metal then a dull thud as something hits the ground. It takes him a second to realize he’s still alive, and then there’s one wild moment where he thinks Willy shot Zach, but then he looks up and Zach’s crouched on the ground next to Willy, looking just as stunned, just as not-dead.

Willy’s still standing there, looking behind Auston, and Auston follows his gaze to the body on the ground, one of Ivanov’s guys. Auston hadn’t even heard him coming. There’s a pool of blood forming under the guy’s head, and his arm is still outstretched toward where Auston and Mitch were standing, his gun inches away where it fell from his hand.

“Oh my god,” Zach says, breathless. “ _Shit_ , oh my god.”

Auston stares up at Willy, speechless.

Willy drops his gun.

\---

The guys help Auston lay Mitch out in the backseat of the car. Mitch barely stirs as they carry him, just blinks up at Willy and kind of hums before turning away.

Zach sets about pulling out the GPS, getting rid of the trackers in the car, and then Auston and Willy are just standing there while Mitch breathes all uneven in the background, and if this is a love triangle it’s not one Auston’s ever seen before.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Willy just shakes his head, doesn’t meet his eyes. “If this affects your family, I never meant-”

“I know,” Willy says.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Auston says, and he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince. He _did_ hurt Willy, is the thing; today, telling him that everything he’s ever known is a lie, but before, too, Auston thinks, because partners was enough for him, and he thought that was it, but-

Willy might’ve been on a different page, Auston thinks.

Willy doesn’t really answer the hurting thing – there’s nothing much to say, now – but he doesn’t pull away when Auston hugs him, just goes stiff. Leans in, the tiniest little bit.

“I fixed the car,” Zach says, coming around the hood, and Auston tugs him into the hug too, wordless. Zach hugs back right away.

Slowly, real gradually, Willy’s arms come up, and he hugs them back.

They stand there for longer than they should, the three of them hanging on to each other. They’ve been Auston’s team for as long as he’s had one, his brothers. No one else understands what he’s done, what they’ve all done, not fully.

Zach pulls back, does a really shit job of keeping it together when he asks, “Where’re you going to go?”

“Need to know,” Willy answers for Auston, then, still not meeting his eyes. “We’ll keep them off the trail as long as we can.”

Auston nods, looks at Zach and tries for a smile. “You’ll be fine,” he says, as authoritative as he can. “I mean, I heard you went to MIT, so. You’ll be fine.”

Zach laughs, but it sounds kind of wet, and he swipes at his nose, hard. He cares so much, always has, has been keeping them alive for years.

“Can I see your phone?” Auston asks, something occurring to him after the ‘keeping them alive’ thing. “Just quick?”

Zach passes it over, and Auston types out Mitch’s address in a note before handing it back. “Feed the fish, okay?” he says. “His name’s Fido.”

Zach nods, holds onto his phone with both hands. Willy’s just- he’s just staring at Auston, hard, and he looks so lost that Auston has to reach out and squeeze his hand, just once.

“Will,” he says. “Willy, you could-”

He doesn’t know what he’s about to offer – _come with us_ , maybe, as if Willy’s going to come be a fugitive, as if he’s going to leave his family behind, as if they can go back to whatever they were before.

Willy looks down at their hands, then up at Auston, and it’s like Auston can see him schooling himself, face neutral. It’s kind of funny – Auston didn’t realize how much Willy was letting him see until he’s not, anymore.

“Go before they get here,” Willy says. He pulls his hand back.

Auston looks at his team, tries to memorize their faces. He can hear sirens in the distance. Knows the real danger is going to be a lot quieter. The people who wanted Mitch dead still will.

He goes.

\---

The motel is a cash-by-the-hour, absolute dump of a place, but it’s far from anywhere with cameras, and Auston and Mitch are either fugitives or having any bureaucratic trace of their existence wiped or both, so Auston gets a room for the night, locks the door, and runs a shower for Mitch.

Mitch just sits there under the showerhead, months’ worth of grime swirling around him and down the drain. Watching Marns come down would almost be funny, under any other circumstances: he just goes where Auston puts him, completely passive, keeps on looking at Auston like he thinks something’s funny, not saying anything. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

“Can you get dressed?” Auston asks, once he’s shut the water off.

Mitch voice cracks, like he hasn’t used it in a while. “You can get dressed, sure.” He blinks at Auston, blank, and Auston tries to ignore the way his stomach sinks, tries not to let it show on his face.

“I’ll help,” he says, gentle as he can.

Mitch is very obliging, holds up his arms to help Auston put his shirt on, then curls up in the bed. He looks small in the too-big t-shirt and sweats from Auston’s go bag, maybe small in general.

“We’ll get some actual clothes,” Auston promises, but Mitch doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look like he hears him, so Auston shuts the light off and lies down next to him, keeps one hand on his gun.

“Say something,” he says, when the silence gets too much, and he’s too exhausted for sleep.

“Can’t,” Mitch yawns, and he presses his face against Auston’s arm, kind of loosely holds onto him. “Don’t want to wake up.”

It’s the most coherent thing he’s said since Auston found him, and it kind of feels like getting stabbed in the heart. Auston curls himself around Mitch, protective, same as they’ve always done, and listens to him fall asleep.

Every sound makes Auston’s heart race, everything in his brain is going a million miles an hour.

He must doze off at some point – he remembers watching headlights outside the window, watching the clock flash 7:58 – because he wakes up as he falls off the bed and onto the floor, hard.

The first thing he’s aware of is Mitch sitting on the bed, staring down at him, petrified.

“Marns,” Auston says, confused, because it almost looks like Mitch pushed him, but that doesn’t make sense. “What-”

Mitch flinches when Auston reaches out to him, and he’s looking around the room, eyes wild. “Don’t touch me,” he says, arms around his torso, practically folded in on himself. “Don’t touch me, don’t-”

“It’s me,” Auston says, and he’s convinced Mitch is still seeing stuff that’s not there, but when he meets his eyes, they’re not hazy, just petrified.

“No it’s not,” Mitch says, and it comes out almost a sob, and Auston starts to say something, he doesn’t know what, but Mitch gets his hands over his ears, shaking his head, “Shut up, please, you’re not real, just shut up.” He sits there, huddled up while Auston stares, stunned, and it’s not what he was expecting, nothing even close.

\---

It gets worse before it gets better.

Auston uses the computer in the main office to google withdrawal symptoms, and that’s what’s happening to Mitch, as far as he can tell, and every single site recommends checking the affected person into a treatment facility, which isn’t an option, here, not even close.

They stay cooped up in the room, living off food from the vending machine down the hall while Mitch burns out three months’ worth of god knows what cocktail of drugs, tossing and turning in bed, damp with sweat, getting up periodically to sprint into the bathroom and heave up anything he’s managed to keep down.

Auston sleeps on the couch, keeps the TV on to the local news. Nothing about them is mentioned. He doesn’t know if that’s a good sign.

“Fuck this,” Mitch says, one night, and he’s clinging to the bedsheet, knuckles white, eyes bloodshot. “ _Fuck_ this.”

“I’m sorry,” Auston says, helpless. “I- I don’t know what I can-”

“Just stop,” Mitch snaps, harsh like Auston didn’t think he could ever sound, too loud. “Stop talking to me, stop trying to help, I don’t- _stop_.”

The room’s dark. Neither of them opens the curtains.

\---

So:

Mitch is wretching into the toilet again, time a million, and Auston hesitates outside for almost a quarter of an hour before coming to stand in the doorway, but when Mitch looks up and meets his gaze, he’s clear-eyed for the first time since he’s been back.

“What happened?” he asks, disconcertingly normal, like he’s asking about the score of the Leafs game. His hair is plastered to his forehead with a cold sweat.

“Mitchy,” Auston says.

“Tell me what happened,” Mitch orders, almost before Auston’s done talking, and his voice doesn’t shake, but it sounds like it comes close. “I messed up?”

“No,” Auston says, fast. “No, you didn’t- They set you up.” Mitch stares. Auston continues, all in a rush, “The people in charge set it up so Ivanov would kill you because they thought you’d recognize where you knew the name Bettman from. I don’t know how far it goes. They did it to your friend as well, to McDavid.”

Mitch hardly even reacts. “Naz and Patty?” he asks; then, when Auston hesitates, he says, sharp, “My team, 043 and 012, did-”

“They didn’t know,” Auston says. He’s never heard Mitch sound like this. Should probably have stopped being surprised by him, by now. “They helped me find you.” And he’s been holding onto that fact like a good thing, like at least he could spare Mitch that last, worst betrayal, but it’s too little, too late, at this point.

Mitch just shuts his eyes, leans his head on the edge of the bathtub. Stays still.

“Mitch,” Auston says, heart aching.

“I knew it was something,” Mitch says, quiet. He sounds stunned. “They didn’t even ask me any questions.”

He starts crying, then, sobs that shake him. Mostly silent. Still doubled over, on his knees in the cramped bathroom.

 

v.

_Auston was following Mitch up the stairs back to the office, laughing at some dumb joke Mitch had made, when he walked right into 029._

_“Oops,” Auston said, steadying himself on the rail, still mid-laugh. “Sorry, man.”_

_“Woah, he smiles,” 029 teased. They’d been teammates for all of two weeks by then, working really well together, even as Auston was still trying to find his footing and figure out where he fit with 029 and their tech Zach and their not-quite-antagonistic, old married couple banter._

_He remembered his manners, eventually, stepping a little to the side and ushering Mitch forward. “You’ve met 029,” he said, and Mitch nodded and waved. “This is 016, he does undercover as well.”_

_“You must be the hot teammate Auston talks about,” Mitch said, shameless, and Auston punched him in the shoulder, gentle enough that he could feel 029 staring._

_“You’re such a shit,” he chided, and Mitch just laughed, and then Auston did too, and 029, and the three of them were just standing there in the cramped staircase, laughing at something stupid. It was- both of the others laughed like they were really, genuinely happy, and Auston knew he was staring, didn’t stop._

_“It’s Mitch, by the way,” Mitch said, holding out his hand for 029 to shake._

_“I-” 029 blinked, clearly taken aback by the blatant disregard for the one rule that’d been drummed into them since getting recruited, you are your number, and Mitch was still waiting for an answer. Auston wasn’t sure if it was because of shock or a conscious choice, but 029 gathered himself and said, with a glance at Auston, “William. Willy.”_

_William._

_He looked like a William, Auston thought, watching him shake hands with Mitch. It was a nice name._

_“Take care of him, okay?” Mitch said, and it came across possessive, a little bit, and Auston was still in the early enough stages of a crush that it might’ve been wishful thinking, but he’d take it, from Mitch Marner._

_Willy just nodded, real serious; glanced at Auston and held his gaze, this time. “Yeah,” he said, and they stood there for a second longer, the three of them, and Auston could almost forget the blinking red light of the camera in the corner._

_He’d only fully realize later that that was the first time he heard Willy’s real name._

_And, looking back, Auston can count the times they’ve all spoken together, him and Willy and Mitch, on one hand. Never about anything serious, never anything but friendly chatter. It was always Auston and Willy or Auston and Mitch, separate things. The other two were weird about each other, a little._

_Auston could never quite be upset about that. Marns and Will were – are – too similar to really be friends, in some ways, too different in others. Still: they both laughed in the staircase that day, and Mitch asked Willy’s name and Willy answered; and a month later Auston pushed Willy out of the way of a bullet that ended up grazing his own arm and Willy kissed him for the first time later that night; a month after that, Mitch called Auston his best friend and Auston promised himself he’d never fuck that up, and-_

_And here they are, years later, and it’s a dumb little thing to remember, that moment in the staircase, but Auston does, like it was yesterday._

\---

The checkout at Walmart goes slow, one cashier late on a weeknight. By the time Auston gets to the front of the line, the cashier – this middle-aged, mom-looking woman – is mid-yawn.

“You need bags, sweetie?” she asks, scanning his groceries.

“Please,” Auston says, keeps his head down so his baseball cap stays low over his eyes, his scruff obscures the rest of his face.

He pays cash, makes a general sound of agreement when the cashier wishes him a good night, and lugs his groceries out. The parking lot is quiet, just a few cars close to the doors, an RV with California plates parked at the other end, by the road. The air’s barely starting to cool, even with the sun down, and Auston’s sweating as he sets the bags in the passenger seat of the old pickup he got on Craigslist. It cost $700, and functions like it cost $50 – no AC, no radio. A broken left mirror.

Auston rolls the windows down, checks behind him, and settles in for a long drive.

He takes a meandering route, checking every so often to make sure he’s not being tailed. He always picks a suburb at random, for shopping, never the same one twice in a row, always at least an hour away. He even crosses the state line, once.

It might be unnecessary. Auston’s not even sure anyone’s looking for them. Not sure what story Willy and Zach made up. In any case, if anyone was following the truck, Auston would see them, once he’s out in the desert. It’s flat, stretching out on all sides; just a few scrubs in sandy dirt, the road getting worse the further he drives until it trails off into nothing.

Auston keeps going, rolls the window up once it starts to get chilly. The clock on the dash is flashing 12:14 by the time the safehouse comes into sight, a little block in the distance.

‘House’ is maybe too generous. It’s a safe-cabin, more accurately, or, like, a safe-shack, built by and subsequently abandoned by doomsday preppers in the 60s. Auston kept tripping booby traps, when they first arrived. Took ages to disable them all. Still, the place is utterly isolated, and they’ve got a water tank and a generator out back, and that’s as good as they could hope for, really, out here.

Auston parks beside the house, grabs the groceries, and makes sure to be noisy coming up the half-rotting front steps so Mitch will hear him coming.

He was right in thinking Marns would still be awake: he’s sitting at the kitchen table, hardly even looks up when Auston gets in, just moves the newspaper he was finishing a crossword in so that Auston can set down his bags.

“Hey,” Auston says, shooting him a smile, hopeful. “You’re still up?”

“Yep,” Mitch says.

Auston pulls out the first thing he grabs from one of the bags. “I got apple juice,” he announces, like it’s exciting news. Oh gee whiz, canned apple juice. “And nails, we were running low.”

“Thanks,” Mitch says, always polite. He folds the newspaper in half, pushes his chair back to stand. “You go to bed, I’ll put stuff away.” He starts pulling out cans from the bags, pasta and beans and peaches.

“I can help,” Auston says, and he reaches out to take one of the cans, thoughtless, but Mitch jerks away, abrupt and panicked, and shrinks back to practically the other side of the kitchen so he’s pressed up against the fridge.

Auston’s an idiot. “Sorry,” he says, distraught, and forgetting isn’t a good enough excuse, but he just- things are so different from before, he just _forgot_. He’s standing by the table, trying to make himself not a threat and not knowing how. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No,” Mitch says, shaking his head, still clutching the can of ravioli like it’s a shield. He looks mortified. “I- Sorry.”

It’s awkward. It’s incredibly fucking awkward, the space between them.

“Mitch-” Auston starts, pained, but-

“Just go to bed, okay?” Mitch interrupts, and Auston can hear the _please_ at the end, and it’s like a punch to the gut.

“Okay,” Auston says, quiet.

He goes to bed.

They still haven’t gotten the hang of it, being out here, existing together again, after everything.

It probably says something, Auston knows, that with nothing and no one but Mitch Marner sitting in the passenger seat of a stolen car, he ran back home, back to the desert. It wasn’t a conscious thing, just- it’s easy to disappear, out here in the middle of nowhere. Especially in a mostly-ruined shack, miles from anything.

He’s been fixing the place up, staying busy best he can. Putting down mousetraps, repairing rotting floorboards. Stuff like that. There’s a lot to do, decades of disuse to make up for. Auston’s still antsy, pent-up energy coiled up inside him at any given moment. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go from almost dying every day to being, just, _stagnant_.

It’s so, so quiet.

Auston’s lonely. A one-bedroom shack in the desert, no communication with the outside world, and he’s pathetically, desperately fucking lonely.

It’s not Mitch’s fault. Obviously, it’s not his fault. He just- Mitch moves around during the day like he’s sleepwalking, barely talking, barely going near Auston. Then, at night, he tosses and turns in the bed across from Auston’s, silent until he wakes up yelling or begging for help or, most often, just gasping for air, and gets out of bed.

Neither of them sleeps much. Auston lies there and listens to Mitch moving around the place, waits for the agency to find them and break down the door and kill them.

He thinks that’s how they’d do it. Maybe question them, first.

He wants to talk, wants to make things better, for Mitch. Doesn’t know what he’d say.

Auston would do it again, all of it, a million times and more, to have Mitch safe. Losing his job, losing his team. He’d do it without hesitating; but it’s just so incredibly quiet, a hundred miles from anything, home and not home at the same time.

\---

There’s a big hole in the roof, right over the threadbare couch, so that’s the next project Auston tackles. The ladder creaks when he climbs up, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, but he makes it up to start taking measurements, figuring out what he needs to do, and hits up a hardware store on his next supply run.

It occurs to him, as he’s lugging planks of wood around, that he does not actually know how to fix a roof. Still – it’s not like there’s anything else to do, and while it’s kind of nice to be able to sit in the living room and look at the stars, he knows it’ll be a lot less nice if the weather ever changes.

So he fixes the roof.

It’s hard work, the sun beating down. Auston’s sitting on one of the new supports, maybe a week into the project, taking a break and considering calling it quits for the day, when the ladder creaks.

Mitch’s head appears over the side of the roof.

“Hey,” Auston says, surprised – Mitch was still in bed when he headed out, lying there and staring at the ceiling.

“Hi,” Mitch says, hauling himself up. He pushes on the roof, testing; then crawls over to where Auston’s sitting and hands him a bottle of water, nice and cold.

“Thanks,” Auston says, and Mitch waves him off, watches as Auston chugs most of the water in one go. He didn’t realize how much he needed it.

Mitch nods at the hammer and nails sitting next to Auston, the half-covered hole in the roof. “Why’re you even bothering?”

Auston shrugs. “In case it rains.”

Mitch looks up at the sky. It’s utterly cloudless, just blue and sand and the sun aching down for as far as they can see.

Auston gets his point, grins kind of self-deprecating. He’s half-expecting Mitch to leave, climb back downstairs, but he stays, and they sit there together in the sun.

It feels tentative. Expectant.

“I kept seeing you,” Mitch says, eventually, and he looks over at Auston, just speaks plainly. “When they gave me that stuff.”

Auston stares. They’ve never talked about what happened, those months when Mitch was gone.

Mitch elaborates. “I mean. I saw a lot of stuff, I guess. But you kept- they’d hurt you, or you’d hurt me, or you’d just stand there, watching.” He’s talking really steady, matter-of-fact like they’re talking about the weather instead about- about people hurting him, making him think that Auston was hurting him. Auston would believe it, the steadiness, if Mitch wasn’t fidgeting, tapping on his leg. “It was real.”

“It wasn’t.” The words get torn out of Auston, horrified. “You know I’d never-”

“I know that,” Mitch interrupts, and he’s still talking quiet, but his voice is strained, and Auston gets the impression he’s been practicing what to say for a while, that he needs to get this out. “But it still feels like it was real.”

“I’m sorry,” Auston says, and he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, how long it took him to find Mitch, maybe that he let him go in the first place. “I’m so sorry, Marns, I-”

“It’s not-” Mitch starts, then breaks off, kind of uncomfortable, dropping Auston’s gaze for the first time. “That’s not why I told you. I just wanted to explain, so you’d know you didn’t- like, it’s not you, it’s me, or whatever.”

Auston laughs, after a second, because he thinks that might’ve been something close to a joke, and it’s been forever, since Mitch has joked. He’s still not laughing, not smiling either, but-

It’s something.

Mitch tucks his legs up by his chest, staring out at the desert. “You said the agency blew my cover on purpose? So Ivanov’s guys would kill me for them?”

Auston nods. “Yeah.”

He can’t tell what the look on Mitch’s face means. “Do you think they knew that they’d...”

“I hope not,” Auston says, because burying a loose end is one thing, but if Bettman knew what kind of sadist Ivanov was-

Auston doesn’t think he would’ve used him. Not out of any illusion of compassion, more, just- torture is inefficient, when it’s just about getting rid of someone. There were easier ways to shut Mitch up.

He doesn’t know if it would make Mitch feel better or worse, to know that the reason he’s alive is because the guy his boss paid to murder him was too fucked up to do the job right. It’s a weird thing to be grateful for.

“I hate them,” Mitch says, sudden, and Auston looks at him, surprised at the heat in Mitch’s voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I never really hated anyone before, but I- I swear to god, I _hate_ them.”

Mitch isn’t good at being bitter. Looks torn up about saying it even now, but he means it, or wants to mean it, Auston can tell.

“Me too,” Auston says. He means it, too.

They sit there, not talking, for a little while. It’s almost companionable, hating people together, and when Auston passes Mitch the half-empty water bottle, like an offering, Mitch takes it.

There’s been some stuff bothering Auston, still. The missing picture from Mitch’s apartment, the other guy that the landlady saw. Auston’s been thinking about it, and he can think of a lot of potential answers, has a couple of working theories, none of which make things any less complicated.

“Do you think McDavid could be alive?” he asks, because the possibility’s been kicking around in his head. It fits – no one saw him die, who else would be interested in the picture – but so could a lot of things. “If they kept him somewhere, and he somehow survived and managed to escape, like you did, do you think he’s alive?”

“I hope not,” Mitch echoes Auston’s words from earlier. “Being trapped that long somewhere, I- I hope they just did it quick.” He exhales, and Auston can’t argue, can’t agree, because neither of those things is his place, here.

He just stays. That’s what he can do.

\---

They fix the roof.

Auston doesn’t let himself hope that it’ll become more than a one-off thing, the two of them up there together, but the very next day, Mitch gets dressed and climbs up the ladder after him, picks up a hammer and asks what part they’re doing next.

It’s easier, with the both of them. Like – Mitch’s foot goes through another old section of the roof, and it turns out they need to rip out and fix the whole thing, so that part’s not easier, but moving the tools and materials up and down, that’s better with two.

They still don’t touch. Mitch is still serious enough to throw Auston off; still looks tired from wandering around the place at night, restless.

Auston still wakes up looking for his gun, gasping out Willy’s name or Zach’s or his sisters’, because he’s thinking about them more, out here.

“We’re in Arizona?” Mitch asks, one day, when they’ve climbed down to sit in the shade for a break. He’s freckled and sunburnt all at once, past the point where sunscreen would make any difference

Auston nods. “Yeah. We are.”

“Your family,” Mitch says, because he remembers, because of course he does.

“They don’t live near here,” Auston says. “No one lives near here.”

“But they’re closer than they were before,” Mitch says; then, when Auston doesn’t respond, “You could see them.”

“I-” Auston starts, then breaks off. “I don’t know what I’d say.”

It’s the truth. He’s not the person he was before this job, not the same son and brother they’d remember. His parents are getting older by now. Breyana’s in _college_.

It’s like looking back on a movie. Him but not.

He doesn’t know what he’d say to them, now, after everything.

“I’m sorry,” Mitch says, because that’s most of their conversations, now.

The sun beats down on them. It stays quiet.

\---

It’s some kind of a gesture, probably, when Auston buys a fish. He doesn’t really mean it to be a big thing, he just parks next to a pet store on a supply run, sees a kid leaving with a goldfish in a bag, and walks right in to buy one of his own.

The thing’s really fat, for a goldfish, swimming around contentedly enough in the little tank they set up on the counter.

“Her name is Rover,” Auston says, while he’s standing there with Mitch, staring at the goldfish exploring its new home. “I thought about Spot, but.”

“Rover,” Mitch echoes, utterly inscrutable. “Like Mars?”

“Sure,” Auston says, then, “She’s for you, you can obviously name her whatever. I just thought- like, with Fido-”

“Rover’s a good name,” Mitch says, and then he leans forward so his nose is nearly touching the glass, follows the fish’s path with his finger. “It sings itself Happy Birthday, y’know,” he says, kind of distant. “The Mars Rover. I saw that on TV before.”

He smiles, the tiniest, barest little thing.

Auston’s heart _soars_.

\---

They have canned ravioli for dinner then finish the crossword from last week’s newspaper before bed, because that’s what counts as entertainment now. Auston gets sixteen down – ‘have a blast with it’, _TNT_ – and gets a smile from Mitch for it, so it’s not the worst way to pass an evening.

He wakes with a start, later, at a noise, then relaxes as he recognizes the sounds: Mitch’s bedsprings as he gets up, footsteps on the wooden floor, something dragging along after him.

It’s pitch black, the sheets sticking to Auston’s back with sweat. He was dreaming, not a good one. Even in his dream, it had been so _dark_.

The front door opens and closes, across the house, and Auston’s heading in that direction before he even knows what he’s doing.

Mitch glances over at Auston when he steps outside. He’s sitting on the front step with his blanket around his shoulders. It’s cool out.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Auston says, then, “Yeah. I’m glad you did, though.” He sits down next to Mitch, leaves maybe a foot between them.

Mitch tugs his blanket tighter around himself. “Bad dream?”

Auston nods. It was his old dog this time, whimpering from behind the door of the boss’ office while he tried and failed to get in to help her. “You too?”

“Me too,” Mitch confirms, and he doesn’t elaborate, and Auston doesn’t ask him to.

It kind of startles Auston, when Mitch laughs. “God, look at us.”

“Basically James Bond,” Auston quips, and it’s a lighthearted enough moment, but the irony – sitting here in pajamas on the steps of a shack in the middle of nowhere, running headlong from the idea of facing any of the shit they left behind – feels big.

They look pretty pathetic, sitting here, probably.

A gust of wind blows past, makes the edge of Mitch’s blanket tickle Auston’s shin, makes goosebumps along Auston’s arm.

“I never said thank you,” Mitch says, and Auston tries to shrug it off, because there’s a reason they haven’t had this conversation.

“It was just ravioli,” he says. Mitch doesn’t buy it.

“You know what I meant, Matts,” he pushes, but Auston just shakes his head, uncomfortable.

“Don’t.” He doesn’t- it wasn’t some heroic thing, it was him wanting his best friend back. It wasn’t an option.

Mitch looks frustrated. “You can’t act like it’s nothing-”

“Mitch.”

“You gave up everything-”

“You would’ve done the same for me,” Auston interrupts, firm, and that’s what finally makes Mitch drop it. Even with how different things are, how weird things have been between them, Mitch can’t argue that, and Auston knows it.

“I kissed you,” Mitch says, after a while. “Is that-”

“You know that’s not why,” Auston says, almost before he’s done.

“But it’s not nothing, either,” Mitch says. It’s a question.

Auston shakes his head.

Mitch doesn’t look surprised. And that- Auston’s not surprised by it either, exactly, because Mitch has always seen right through him, but he was expecting- he doesn’t know. It’s stupid to be embarrassed about this, like Auston’s some kid with a crush.

He’s a little embarrassed anyways.

“Did you know the whole time?” Auston asks. “That I liked you like that?”

Mitch shrugs, which means yes. “You stared a lot,” he says, then, “Don’t blush, I- you know I liked you back.”

They’re both using past tense. It feels careful. Auston would be dwelling on it, but-

“Why didn’t you do anything about it?” he asks. Mitch _liked_ him, and Auston’s not fully surprised either, but he just- it’s an important thing. It was always going to be an important thing, the two of them. “Before?”

Mitch kind of shrugs. “You always thought I was a better person than I am,” he says. “That was a lot to live up to. I was-” He breaks off, does this little sound. Laughing at himself, a little, because they’re both aware that this is a dumb conversation to be nervous about, after everything. “I was scared of fucking it up.”

Auston doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. Mitch was scared of fucking things up with _him_ , as though he could _ever_ , as though Auston wasn’t worrying about the same thing since they became friends, since he realized Mitch Marner is a person he lucked into for no real reason.

And it was because they were on different teams, maybe, but he always kept Mitch separate from the job, his one good thing, and it never occurred to him that Mitch was doing the same with him.

Auston squeezes his eyes shut, stretches his legs out on the steps, and breathes out, slow. Out in the dark, something skitters past. He doesn’t remember how not to be scared.

He opens his eyes. “I wish things had been different,” he says, staring up at the sky. It stretches out forever, peppered with a million stars, still not a cloud in sight. “I wish we just met somewhere else.”

The corner of Mitch’s mouth tilts up, but it’s sad. “I probably still would’ve been too scared to kiss you,” he admits, kind of scrunching his nose up, and Auston can’t help but smile.

“I could’ve kissed you, instead,” he says. “Probably, like, the day we met, if you’d have let me.”

“I would’ve,” Mitch says, and they look at each other for just a second before looking away.

They would’ve been happy, Auston thinks. If they met somewhere else. They would’ve found each other, because he doesn’t think there’s a world where they don’t find each other, and they could’ve been best friends and more and just. Easy together.

Mitch leans forward, rests his chin on his knees where they’re tucked up by his chest. Auston can barely make out the silhouette of his nose, his eyelashes against the sky.

“I did bad stuff, Aus,” Mitch says, simple. Like a fact. “I watched bad stuff happen and I didn’t do anything.”

“Me too,” Auston says, then, because he knows Mitch enough to know what he’s asking for, here, “It doesn’t make us bad.”

“We worked for a bad guy,” Mitch argues. “We did bad things.”

“For good reasons.”

“But they helped a bad person,” he says. “They- I still see his _face_.” His voice breaks.

At first Auston thinks he means the boss, or maybe Bettman, but then he realizes – Mitch is talking about the guy he killed, with Ivanov’s hazing thing.

It’s worse when you can remember their faces. More personal.

And Auston- he gets it, questioning stuff, because he was an idiot nineteen year old who wanted to help his country and do all the shit people talked about in movies, to be exceptional at what he did and make his mom proud of him. And sure, he ended up becoming really good at a lot of things, but mostly at hurting people, and trying to justify that, to make it personal, is just-

It’s an easy thing to get lost in. Doesn’t do much good.

He doesn’t feel good or bad, just sort of- removed from it all. He doesn’t know what he is now, doesn’t know how to sum up the good intentions and bad decisions and trust in all the wrong things. There’s no trace of it now, anyhow. No trace of any of the last years of his life, except for Mitch Marner sitting here on the steps next to him.

And, Auston figures, that has to count for something.

“We can still be good,” he says; and he meets Mitch’s eyes and holds his gaze, tries to believe himself when he speaks. “We’re still- you and me are still a good thing, okay? The good guys.”

Mitch exhales, somewhere between a laugh and a breath. Rubs at his eyes, hard. “Can we be the good guys tomorrow?” he asks, weary, and-

“Yeah,” Auston says. “Yeah, okay.”

Mitch looks out at the desert, then back at Auston, and he looks determined. “Can I-” he starts to ask, then, before Auston gets a chance to wonder where this is going: “Don’t touch me.”

He doesn’t say it mean, or scared. Just sort of says it, then scoots closer and leans his head on Auston’s shoulder.

It’s not particularly comfortable. Mitch is all tense, and his blanket is itchy against Auston’s arm, and Auston’s trying so hard to stay still that he must be shaking.

It’s not the two of them, cuddled up on Mitch’s couch, overlapping everywhere. Nothing close.

Auston could almost cry with it anyways, and they stay out on the porch ‘til the sun starts coming up over the horizon. No one talks, which- the change from constant chatter and joking is still weird for them, but then, Auston guesses, they don’t really need words, for this.

\---

Some things change more than others.

The sun still comes up. Rover still swims in the bowl on the counter.

Mitch still wakes up pleading for help. Auston still rolls over in bed expecting to find Zach talking in his ear or Willy lying next to him; still wakes up thinking about how you can love someone and not be in love with them and not have either thing make a difference, really, in the end.

He hears _thirty-four_ in a hundred different voices, in his sleep.

Auston thinks it might be wishful thinking, thinking that that’ll ever stop.

It’s harder to make sense of things, out here. The fact that he’s lost count of how many lives he’s directly or indirectly ended, that he still looks at people on his grocery runs and thinks about how he’d take them out if they tried anything.

Auston can’t stop doing that, no matter how much he tries. That might be wishful thinking, too.

But:

He joins Mitch now, sometimes, when they’re both awake in the middle of the night. They talk, or they eat, or they just sit together, and it’s something.

They finish the roof and drink cheap wine to celebrate; then they do the handrail on the front steps, and clear out the cobwebs in the corners of the porch.

When they’re painting the wall in the main room, covering everything with a clean coat of white, Auston peeks over and sees that Mitch painted a little smiley face, down at the bottom where he hasn’t painted properly yet.

Auston does one too, gives it a giant, toothy smile, and glances at Mitch to see if he’ll get it.

Mitch adds a nose to his face, with two huge nostrils, then meets Auston’s eyes, raises his eyebrow the tiniest bit.

Auston doesn’t mean to laugh as loud as he does, but it comes out this huge guffaw, and then Mitch is laughing too, rusty and surprised but real, _happy_.

The dirt road stays empty. No one calls them by their numbers.

They start to exhale.

\---

“Don’t touch me,” Mitch instructs, one night, and crawls into Auston’s bed, right next to him. It’s cramped, but they aren’t touching, each on their own side.

Auston sleeps right through to morning. He doesn’t know if Mitch gets up to wander around, but if he does, he comes back, and he’s there when Auston wakes up.

\---

“Excuse me?”

Auston jumps about a foot into the air, almost drops his grocery bags as he spins around and finds himself face to face with the cashier from inside.

 “What?” Auston snaps, and it comes out harsher than he means it to, but- it’s an empty parking lot, later than he’d usually be here, and he’d zoned out for just long enough for her to sneak up on him.

She looks petrified, which- okay, she just got yelled at by a guy a foot and a half taller than her in a deserted Walmart parking lot, it’s fair. And it’s not like people being scared of him is a new sensation, but it’s been a while, and Auston just- he needs her to not be looking at him like that, can’t shake the guilt.

“Sorry,” he says, and tries to sound calmer. “What?”

The lady’s clutching her purse. She looks like Auston’s mom. Shorter. “I’m sorry- I recognized you from inside, my car isn’t starting. Would you be able to give me a boost? I have the cables and everything.” She must see Auston hesitate, because she continues, fast, “I’ve got to get home before my husband leaves for his shift.”

“I-” Auston says, because if this is a trap, it’s an incredibly fucking obvious one, and he’ll die before he leads anyone back to Mitch, but he also just- she looks like his mom, and Auston’s sick to death of people looking at him like he’s scary, and that’s how he ends up opening up the hood of her minivan and trying to figure out where to attach jumper cables.

He stays alert, really wary, but nothing happens, no one hops out of the backseat to kill him. There’s nothing even back there except for a kid’s car seat, some of those little family decals on the back window.

The whole thing is normal enough to be completely bizarre. Cashier lady talks about her kids, they manage to get the car started. Easy. Auston stays quiet. He can’t actually remember the last time he talked to someone not Mitch or in the agency or a target for a mission.

He’s about to drive off, but the woman leans out of her window and motions for Auston to roll his down.

“Whatever you’ve been going through, hon,” she says, gentle. “I’m glad it’s getting better. You’re looking well.”

It takes Auston a second. “Thanks,” he says. He returns her wave as she drives off, then, when he’s alone, slumps down against the steering wheel.

That was an idiot thing to do. Talking to someone for that long, and he’s been coming to this location too frequently, if she recognized him, so he can’t ever come back here again, but-

He’s looking well.

\---

So there’s a cloud outside, and then a bunch of clouds, and then it’s after midnight and Mitch is in Auston’s bed the way he has been, recently, and he leans in, brushes his nose to Auston’s, and says, “I’m going to kiss you again, okay?”

“Mitch,” Auston says, stunned. “You don’t have to-”

“Stay still,” Mitch says, and it’s not _don’t touch me_ , and then he touches his lips to Auston’s and Auston doesn’t move, hardly even breathes.

And they love each other, they’ve been loving each other and they both know it, but for everything inevitable about them, this- this is different. Different than the only other time they’ve kissed, different from anything before. Auston didn’t let himself want this. Mitch could barely touch him, this wasn’t Auston’s to want. But.

He stays frozen in place, like if he moves or makes a sound he’s going to break the spell, wake up and realize he’s dreaming.

Mitch barely pulls back. “You can,” he says, and Auston hesitates, because he doesn’t want this to be Mitch thinking Auston expects something, that he’s been, like, waiting for Mitch to be okay enough to do this; but Mitch maybe gets that because he presses his forehead to Auston’s, so, so careful.

“Please,” Mitch says. Asks. “You can, please.”

“Mitchy,” Auston breathes, and this time, when they kiss, it’s a _kiss_. Auston gets a hand on Mitch’s shoulder, more for balance than anything else, but it’s skin on skin contact, and he rubs his thumb along Mitch’s arm, lets Mitch tug him in closer and get his hands up in Auston’s hair.

It’s like- it’s a million things at once, touching and being touched without adrenaline pounding through his veins, without being in immediate danger. Auston forgot how to do this, how to be this close to another human, and it feels like being drunk, just Mitch’s skin warm under his hand, their lips together.

It’s not _going_ anywhere, Auston doesn’t think, but it’s- it’s heated, a little bit frantic, a little clumsy, both of them kind of unsure what to with this much after this long. It’s a lot, almost overwhelming, and Auston’s disappointed but maybe a little bit relieved at the same time when Mitch pulls back.

He doesn’t go far, just lets go of Auston quick and scoots back onto his half of the bed. He doesn’t look panicked, exactly, but he’s got his arms crossed, very much making space. Auston tries to catch his breath, stays where he is.

“Sorry,” Mitch says, and he’s biting on his lower lip, looks like he’s fighting with himself, between kissing again and running away. ‘Sorry, I thought I’d be more okay with- I just wanted to.”

“Don’t say sorry for that,” Auston says, and then _I missed you_ is on the tip of his tongue, absurdly, but they’ve been cooped up together for months so he doesn’t say it, just looks over at Mitch, hardly daring to hope. “You wanted to?”

“Sorry,” Mitch says again, and Auston’s about to tell him off for it, but then Mitch is laughing at the look on his face, and it’s a breathless kind of sound, and it takes Auston that long to realize he was teasing. They kissed and Mitch is teasing him and it doesn’t feel even a little bit like goodbye.

Mitch is still the best thing Auston’s got, still his best friend. He knows what Auston’s done, knows the blood on Auston’s hands and has his own too, and he’s still here. And that’s not atonement, really, but it feels like it, all the same.

“Auston Matthews,” Mitch says, later, when they’re lying there, facing each other. He says it like _we’re here, you’re here_. He touches the tips of his fingers to Auston’s.

“Mitch Marner,” Auston echoes, and turns his hand so he can hold Mitch’s, and they lie there side by side, listening to the beginnings of a storm outside, to the sound of raindrops on the roof.

**Author's Note:**

> \- generic action movie content including mysteriously potent yet vaguely described new drugs, improbable fight sequences, and a severely sketchy secret organization that recruits and lowkey indoctrinates teenagers to commit horrible violence in service of The Cause   
>  \- pretty explicit descriptions of violence/death throughout   
>  \- the implication of some dubiously consensual sex stuff (a character is undercover and mentions that the bad guy likes him because he looks young)   
>  \- a non-POV character is held captive and drugged and generally mistreated; basically has a zillion consecutive really bad trips and has a rough time coming down   
>  \- dealing with trauma and its aftereffects (touch aversion, nightmares, guilt)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Bargained for Salvation (I Got a Lethal Dose)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15002534) by [ghostwriterofthemachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriterofthemachine/pseuds/ghostwriterofthemachine)




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